It Had to Be You
by piewacket
Summary: Sherlock and Molly enter into a marriage of convenience. Both of them will have a built in friend and companion with none of the distractions that come along with a romantic entanglement. It's not what most people would do, but it meets their needs. That is until one of them learns the other has ulterior motives. The purported marriage of equals is anything but.
1. The Dancing Begins

The ring weighed heavily on her finger and Molly absently twisted it as she watched the guests move about the floor to Connick's version of _It Had to Be You_. She had to admit the wedding turned out to be a beautiful event. Everything had been kept simple and elegant. No fussy or frothy gown for her. She wore a simple A line satin dress with the slightest touch of beading around the top of the strapless bodice. All of the flower arrangements were posies of pink and cream rosebuds tied with light green ribbon. Even the food was rather posh with waiters circulating all night plying guests with a seemingly endless supply of tasty, bite-size morsels.

Molly was surprised to find herself even attending such an affair, let alone being the focal point of it. It definitely was not her success. Mary and Georgie had planned it all. The choice of music was one of the few wedding details to which Molly had personally seen during the whirlwind of the past few weeks. Unlike most other women, she'd never been all that interested in planning a lavish wedding. Molly never understood how her sister Georgie and Georgie's friends could spend hours perusing bridal magazines and websites. Practicing feminine wiles had never been appealing to her after listening to Georgie and her crew scheme on how to snag their latest love interest. It all seemed pointless and silly. All that time and effort was better spent studying chemistry and biology.

Smiling wryly to herself, Molly acknowledged this was probably why she at her own wedding watching others dance to her favorite song while she sat alone at a table wondering where the hell her husband had gone. Not that she'd expected Sherlock to dote upon her. That would have been completely out of character for him. However, after checking his phone an hour ago, he'd disappeared from the reception. Her feet hurt from the new shoes and she was tired. If she wasn't going to be dancing, then she wanted to go home, shrug out of the uncomfortable ensemble, don her sweats and curl up with Toby.

Well, she wouldn't be going to home tonight. She'd be going to 221B. Eventually it might feel like home, but this afternoon Molly had been keenly aware of feeling like a visitor as she moved in her belongings into John's old room. Toby had immediately dashed under the bed and refused to come out. For a few seconds, Molly had considered joining him. Then Mary arrived and wedding day mania had taken over giving her no more time to doubt her choice.

Molly scanned the room again and still found no sign of Sherlock. Sighing, she downed the champagne left in her glass and furtively kicked off her shoes under the table. There was no sense in keeping them on any longer. It was not as if she'd need them any time soon. Another glass of champagne materialized over her shoulder.

"You seem to be out of champagne, Molly. That won't do so I brought you another. Sitting this one out?" Lestrade sat down next to her and took a sip from his own glass while holding out the other glass for her. A little bit of the contents sloshed over the side. "Whoops. Don't want to waste the good stuff, eh?"

Molly noted that he had evidently already had quite a bit to drink this evening, at least enough so he wasn't aware that, aside from one waltz with John, she'd not once been on the parquet floor. "Thank you, Greg. Champagne is exactly what I need. I'm afraid I not much good at dancing. Lucky that, isn't it?" Molly smiled but could not quite hide a momentary look of wistfulness.

"Molly, you make a smashing bride. Absolutely wonderful. Sherlock has no idea what a prize he's captured." Greg eyed her appreciatively and gave her a broad smile.

Biting her lip, Molly corrected him, "Greg, you know this is not a proper marriage. Sherlock told me you're aware of the circumstances. There's no need for the usual platitudes."

Lestrade cocked his head and studied her as if she was a suspect sitting across an interview table. Reaching a decision, he set down his glass, scooted his chair closer to her and took her hands in his. "Molly… Molly you don't have to do this, you know."

"I know. It is my choice. I am perfectly aware of what I'm doing. Believe me, John, Mary and my sister Georgie have all pointed out the folly of my decision. I don't want to have this conversation again. Rather too late for that at any rate."

"The heart wants what the heart wants, Molly?" Greg wryly questioned.

Molly was so surprised by his assumption that she laughed. "Greg, I'm not some ninny hopelessly pining after Sherlock. I know him. I'm not certain he's even capable of a love affair. Honestly, we've long since passed that point in our relationship. Our marriage will be one of friends and equals. Or at least as equal as Sherlock can treat anyone. "

A look of disbelief crossed his face. "Don't you want more than that? Most women…"

Molly cut him off. "Most women are not me. Greg, I have had years to realize that romantic relationships are not my forte. I mean look at my track record: a boyfriend who ended up being a criminal mastermind as well as crazy as a loon and then a fiancé who was engaged to two women at the same time." She removed a hand from his grasp and gently cupped his face, "It's not like I'm in great demand. But I do thank you for being a concerned friend, Greg. Thank you."

Meeting Molly's eyes, Greg flushed and began to stutter, "Molly…Mol… Christ, Molly, you sell yourself short. You deserve much better that Sherlock. He's brilliant but a right bastard. You deserve someone who will cherish and take care of you."

Molly stared into Lestrade's eyes, confounded by his insistence. She wondered if it wasn't the drink talking. He'd certainly never given any indication of an interest in her. Before she could reply, a familiar voice acerbically interjected, "Someone say like yourself, Inspector Lestrade?"

Molly quickly dropped her hand and stared guiltily at Sherlock. Never mind how unusual their marriage was to be, it felt wrong to be caught discussing Sherlock's failings with another man.

Lestrade unsteadily rose to his feet. A belligerent expression his face he demanded, "Yes, someone like me. Why not?"

Sherlock's eyes coolly began to assess the man challenging him. Recognizing that look of his, Molly nervously began to fiddle with her newly acquired ring.

Pointing at Lestrade's left shoulder Sherlock began his litany, "Why not indeed? Well, Greg, shall we start with the blonde hair on your shoulder. I imagine you picked that up while trying to chat up the bartender. You know- the one with the excessively large and artificially enhanced breasts."

"Sherlock, stop this," Molly softly protested.

Ignoring her, he continued, "Then there is your pattern of one night stands since your divorce. Which one would you like to discuss first? The junior secretary from…"

"Sherlock, stop it! He's your friend. Stop it!"

Sherlock opened his mouth to continue and then he noticed the angry expression on Molly's face. Obviously she thought he was crossing some unfathomable line. Though why she was blaming him when Greg was the one chatting up another man's wife was beyond Sherlock's understanding; yet another one of those social niceties that she and John excelled at and he had no time for. "Lestrade, go home and sleep it off. I promise not to beat Molly or cause her undue emotional distress. Mycroft has managed to instill some manners into me. As the older brother he's given me "the talk" and it's all sorted."

Lestrade stared owlishly at Sherlock as if trying to read his mind. After a few moments, he nodded slightly, "Right then. I'd best be headed home. Take care of her, Sherlock."

As the two of them watched Greg slowly and waveringly make his way to the exit, Sherlock leaned down and whispered to Molly, "Lestrade must be drunk indeed if he thought Mycroft capable of teaching anyone about marriage and romance. Collect your shoes, Molly, and we'll make our goodbyes. We've about twenty minutes before I need to turn the samples under the heat lamp. Time is of the essence."

Impatient now he watched as Molly jammed the shoes back onto her swollen feet. The ever observant Sherlock never noticed the look of longing Molly sent towards the dance floor as a final flourish of horns signaled the end of her favorite song.


	2. Schrodinger's Cat

She woke up in a panic. Something felt wrong. There was an unfamiliar noise. Trying to remain as still as possible, her eyes scanned the portion of the room that she could see from her curled up position. Out of the corner of her left eye she could just barely view a tall shape near the door. Forcing herself to breathe deeply and calm down, Molly considered her options. There weren't many. Damn, this is why she hated living alone.

The near total darkness of the room registered and Molly realized that the intruder must have put out the hall fixture. Usually there was a steady beam of light from it shining under the door's threshold. Biting her lip, Molly acknowledged to herself that playing possum wasn't a long term option. Perhaps she could make the lack of light work for her? Remembering her cell on the side table, she mumbled as if in the middle of a dream and rolled over onto her stomach. In the process, her left hand brushed the table and swiped up her cell phone. She was on the second digit of the emergency services number when the unfamiliar weight of the ring on her left ring figure filtered up into her consciousness.

Groaning, Molly realized she was at 221B and reached over to flick on the table lamp. A quick glance at the alarm clock told her it was five in the morning. She sat up in bed and a giggle escaped her as she noted the ever so threatening robe hanging on a hook by her door. Molly was happy to see Toby sleeping peacefully on the overstuffed chair next to the window. The little cat had remained stubbornly under the bed when Molly had gone to sleep. She was relieved Toby had started exploring and claiming his new territory.

Molly's stomach gurgled and she realized she was hungry. Now was as good a time as any to follow Toby's lead and start to make herself at home. It occurred to Molly that she had no idea if Sherlock was a heavy or light sleeper. Quietly she began to make her way downstairs. Fortunately, once outside her room, there was enough ambient light for her to make her way to the kitchen without having to turn on any lights. Rooting around in the fridge, she found a hunk of cheese next to several petri dishes. Making a mental note to purchase another fridge for Sherlock's experiments because biological experiments stored next to edible foods was a really bad idea, Molly snagged the hunk and made her way to the sitting room.

"Next time don't dawdle so long. You'll compromise the experiments."

Molly jumped and dropped the cheese on the floor. "Dang it, Sherlock, you scared me. I didn't see you sitting there. What are you doing sitting up in the middle of the night?"

"Thinking. And it's not the middle of the night, it's magrugada and will be sunrise in twelve minutes and thirty-eight seconds."

As her eyes further adjusted to the dimness, Molly could make out Sherlock in his usual chair. She could also see where the cheddar had fallen. Mumbling, "Five second rule," she scooped it up, popped a chunk in her mouth and plopped into the chair opposite Sherlock.

Sherlock shot her a quizzical glance. "Five second rule?"

Molly laughed. "You know. The five second rule? Anything that falls on the floor is still clean and fair game for five seconds. Surely you've heard of it?"

Sherlock merely stared at her.

"You've seriously not heard of the five second rule? Sherlock, sometimes you amaze me."

"I'd hardly consider a lack of knowledge of such a nonsensical idea amazing, Molly. Bacteria do not hold to that time schedule. With your background, you should know that."

"Sher…," Molly stopped herself from continuing the pointless discussion. A man who knew the term for the time before sunrise but did not know the five second rule was not a man to be reasoned with. "Sherlock, do you mind if I sit here and read for a bit or am I disrupting you?"

Sherlock flicked his hand in a show of impatience. "Molly, this is your home. You don't need to request permission, just stop distracting me with absurdities."

Molly marveled yet again at Sherlock's unique ability to be incredibly sweet and incredibly rude in the same sentence and picked up a book from the stack next to the chair. Close to two hours later sunlight filled the room and Molly was enthralled in an 1883 human anatomy textbook. As she turned the page to view another color plate of the nervous system, Molly noticed Sherlock staring at her. He was in what Molly had privately dubbed his thinking pose- legs stretched out and hands clasped with steepled index fingers tapping against his pursed lips. Though in most cases his eyes were either focused on some imagined point in the distance or closed rather than on her. Reluctant to intrude, she quietly stared back rather than comment.

Sherlock broke the silence. "Molly, we have two problems to work out."

The flip of her stomach and flutter of worry surprised Molly. Was Sherlock already regretting their bargain? Sensibly, she couldn't blame him. Hadn't she had her own doubts yesterday? Still, the thought somewhat panicked her. As usual, her expressive face, betrayed her concern.

With a wry smile, Sherlock informed her, "No, I am not referring to our recent nuptials. Although, we do still have some marital details to settle, that's not important now. I'm afraid Moriarty is alive."

Molly opened her mouth and then closed it again, uncertain of how to reply. Sherlock just sat there awaiting her response. "Well… uh…yes, Sherlock. I mean we all sort of knew that when he interrupted the telly with his message.

Shrugging impatiently Sherlock whispered, "Molly, you disappointment me. Surely you deduced there are several alternative explanations for that event? You are an intelligent woman after all. Use your brain. Think!"

Putting down the book, Molly stood up and stretched. "If I am going to be tested this early in the morning, I need to get my blood circulating." She paced about the room, picking up and putting down a variety of objects. Suddenly she stilled and a smile filled her face. "He could have paid someone long ago to air the message on a pre-determined date."

"Another?"

Now fully awake, Molly was enjoying the challenge. Learning of Moriarty's return had been an unwelcome reminder of her gullibility. It was lovely to think he might still be gone. "A computer virus set to deploy the message unless deactivated?"

"Possibly."

"Wait! I know. It's the simplest of solutions. We are crediting him with far too much intelligence and foresight. He couldn't know he was going to die so why set up something like that? It's just another psycho copycatting him!"

Sherlock grinned and softly praised, "Good girl, Molly. I knew you'd get there. Clever girl."

A warm glow filled her at this bit of approbation from Sherlock. However, she did wryly acknowledge to herself that he sounded a lot like she did when she praised Toby for catching a mouse. Still in all, Sherlock's praise was a rare treasure to be savored. The feeling lasted for all of two seconds before he destroyed it.

"However, you are wrong. Moriarty is in fact alive. "

"But how, Sherlock? Ever since the message I've been wondering how he did it. You saw him kill himself. You were right there. Only a few feet away. I autopsied his body myself. You were there when I did it. He can't be alive. It's impossible."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Impossible it may be but I assure you Moriarty is very much alive. Last night I received irrefutable proof. The puzzle is how can Moriarty be dead and alive at the same time?" He jumped up and strode over to the fireplace. Pulling out the knife from the mantle, he whirled and flung it across the room where it stuck into the wall. "It's beyond frustrating."

Still processing the news and unable to offer any valuable input, Molly asked, "Sherlock, what was the other problem?"

Her distraction worked. Sherlock resumed his seat. Scowling at her, he inquired, "The other problem, my dear Molly, is your choice of nightwear. What on earth do you have on?"

Molly grinned. In his own peculiar fashion, Sherlock was a clothes snob. "They're my leopard footie pajamas, Sherlock. Do you have a problem with them?"


	3. Professional Standards

"Where are you off to then?"

Sherlock stopped with one foot out the door. A slight lifting of his shoulders revealed his tension. "Out. New case."

"Oh. Alright then… Then I won't expect you home anytime soon?"

Sherlock took a breath and did his best to put on a neutral expression before turning towards the woman who was questioning him. Despite his efforts, his eyes were still narrowed and there was a distinct chill in his voice when he inquired, "We're not really going to do this, are we? Molly, the terms of our arrangement were very clear. Living in each other's pockets like some lovesick fools was not one of those terms. I'll like as not be gone for a few days." The statement came out more clipped than he had intended and he prepared himself for the wounded look which would soon appear on Molly's face. He hated that look. It was one of only three things which could cause him to feel a twinge of guilt.

Molly beamed. "Fantastic then, I'll have the place to myself for a bit."

Sherlock's head snapped up and his mouth opened in a small moue of surprise. Scanning her face and body language, he quickly deduced that Molly truly was happy and a bit relieved by his imminent absence. He found that he was not pleased at this discovery. "So eager to see me leave, Molly? Why would that be? What have you planned?"

"Nothing special. I'll putter about the flat for a bit. Wear my pjs without having to endure your commentary. Have a friend or two over. You know, just the usual sorts of things." Molly shrugged and with a small laugh explained, "You forget I've lived alone for most of my adult life. It's been a crazy couple of weeks between the wedding and my getting settled in here. You're not the only one adjusting to the changes, Sherlock. "

An unusually awkward pause seemed to last for hours. At least that was how it seemed to Sherlock. "Right then. I'll be off. I'll just…" he cleared his throat in an uncharacteristic moment of uncertainty, "I'll just text you before heading home. I wouldn't want to interrupt anything." In his mind, he heard Mycroft's voice, "_Really Sherlock, you sound almost petulant_." Ignoring the unwanted observation, Sherlock whirled and strode out the door, being very careful to avoid slamming it. He didn't want to give Molly the wrong impression after all.

* * *

Striding along the London streets, Sherlock functioned on auto-pilot. Eyes unseeing of what was in front of him, he still possessed the uncanny ability to weave and dodge through the gaping tourists, businessman on their way home from work and the nanny's sheparding kids from the park. His mind was focused on puzzling out the mystery of Molly. Not that he was adverse to the changes in her. After all, he'd never have suggested their unconventional arrangement if she'd remained the besotted admirer from years ago. No, she'd changed during the years of his absence. The essential Molly was the same but she'd grown more confident. More independent. Yet, tonight she'd been even more different. Sherlock catalogued the details he'd noticed: new shade of lipstick, jumper that was correct size instead of three sizes too large, and a spark of anticipation in her eyes.

Sherlock's sudden stop caused several other pedestrians to swerve to avoid a collision.

"Hey, mate, watch yourself. You nearly caused me to drop my chips," a teenager shouted at him before continuing on his way.

Sherlock didn't even hear him so absorbed was he by the conclusion he'd just reached. Molly Hooper, his wife, was going to have an affair.

* * *

"Don't be ludicrous, John. You sound like Mycroft. Of course, I'm not jealous. I'm concerned. Isn't that how a husband is supposed to behave?" Sherlock inquired with a raised eyebrow.

"Well yes, Sherlock, but since when have you ever reacted in the normal way?"

"Her taste in men has not been the best and Moriarty is back. Until we find Moriarty, Molly is a likely target."

John finished pouring himself a drink and sat across from his friend. A look of dawning horror filled his features. "Sherlock, tell me that is not the reason why you married her."

"That would be a poor reason for marriage and not at all logical, " Sherlock scoffed. "Rather a drastic move to avert a temporary problem and I assure you that Moriarty _will be_ a temporary problem."

John's mouthed dropped open and he shook his head from side to side with a sense of wonder. Slowly, a slight grin appeared.

"What?" Sherlock demanded. "Why are you wearing that silly expression?"

"Drastic, huh? Drastic? This from the man who entered into a love affair and got engaged to break into an office. Nah… that wasn't over the top at all."

The two men's eyes met and each began to chuckle. After a bit, they stopped laughing and the conversation again turned serious.

"Sherlock, we never talked about it, but you do know that you really crossed the line with Janine? You can't go around utilizing innocent people like that."

Sherlock waved his hand dismissively. "Janine ended up profiting in the end." Sherlock closed his eyes and shuddered as he thought of the result of her lurid tales of his prowess. "Meanwhile, her tabloid interviews have resulted in a bevy of rabid fans. Some of the personal items they send make even Mrs. Hudson blush. I've been more than adequately penalized for my actions. Besides, I even let Janine keep the ring."

"You really don't get it, do you, Sherlock? I understand that you don't always play by the same rules as the rest of us, but entering into romantic relationships as an investigative tool really is not on. What if she'd gotten pregnant? Even you wouldn't abandon a child."

Bristling, Sherlock replied, 'I'm not certain I appreciate that 'even you', John. Besides, your point is irrelevant. That was never going to happen."

"Mary and I didn't plan for a child and yet it happened. You should know enough about biology to understand that sex sometimes result in pregnancy."

"Sex? When did sex come into the conversation?"

"Janine and you? Boyfriend and girlfriend? Her staying the night and wearing your shirt? Sound familiar?" John's questions trailed off as Sherlock appeared more and more confused. "Sherlock, uh… you and Janine never… never were physically intimate?" The pitch of John's voice rose proportionally with his level of embarrassment at this topic. He was surprised to see Sherlock looking at him with an expression of indignation.

"Of course not, John, I do have professional standards you know. I'm a high functioning sociopath, not a gigolo."

Completely flummoxed on how to process this new piece of information, John merely shook his head in a bemused manner. Deciding to get the conversation back on track, he observed, "Don't think I didn't notice you never answered my original question. If you didn't marry Molly to protect her from Moriarty, why did you marry her?"

Sherlock felt completely discomfited by the question. He did not wish to have this discussion. A silence descended between the two friends. It stretched on for a few minutes. Knowing Sherlock's tricks, John decided to wait him out. Various emotions flitted across Sherlock's face before settling into something resembling a mixture of distaste and vulnerability.

"Companionship. I needed companionship," he softly admitted.

"Companionship?" John repeated stupidly.

"I don't wish to become Mycroft. Indeed, I find that I have grown accustomed to regular human interaction, as annoying as it may be." Sherlock hadn't a clue as to how helpless he sounded.

"You married for companionship?" There was a note of incredulity in John's voice. "Well, I suppose that's one reason for it."

"Yup," Sherlock replied in precise tone that popped the p sound.

John had seen Sherlock use this method before to discourage further questions. But John wasn't having it. This was too important to drop. "Sherlock, is Molly aware that you and Janine never engaged in…?" Rather than explicitly state the issue, John waved his hands a bit. This heart to heart chat was not what he'd intended for this evening, but if he didn't get to the bottom of this Mary would never forgive him.

Shrugging one elegant shoulder, Sherlock dismissively replied, "I don't know. The subject never came up. Why should it?"

"No reason. No reason at all, Sherlock. Just do me a favor and make sure it doesn't." John ran a hand over his face in exasperation and covered his mouth as if to prevent himself from blurting something further out. It seemed that Sherlock Holmes was not so very clever after all.

* * *

A/N: I had intended for this to be a relatively short story, but it seems to have taken on a life of its own. After a long drought, Sherlock has brought about the return of my writing muse.

I imagine this story will be several chapters long and filled with humor, angst, romance and mystery. Expect some old faces to arrive on the scene. I hope you decide to take the journey with me.


	4. The Three Amigos

"Really, dearies, I don't know why no one listens to me. I may seem like a batty old cow but I'm not an idiot. Marriage changes people. It changes everything. The sex between Frank and I was quite lovely until we got married. Then suddenly the sex stopped and he was off and chasing other women. What about you, Mary dear, things still going well with John? I imagine you're wanting to spice things up a bit again since the baby?" Mrs. Hudson questioned and eagerly awaited a response. Having been starved of 'girl talk' for so long, she was thoroughly enjoying this evening. It was just like the ever kind and thoughtful Molly to have remembered her and invited her to join them. Most young people would have overlooked an elderly landlady, but not Molly Hooper. Though she was still bewildered by the younger generation's ability to shift from one type of romantic partner to another, Sherlock had done well in choosing a replacement for John.

Mary's eyes widened and met Molly's. Both women were surprised and delighted by this facet of the older woman. "Yeah, well now, at the moment John and I are too tired from getting up during the night to feed and change Sophie's diapers to give much thought to anything but sleep, Mrs. Hudson." Mary pulled a wry face and took large gulp of her wine.

Mrs. Hudson tutted, "You'll not want to let that to go on too long, dearie. Men have such short attention spans you know. And please call me Martha, it's so much friendlier that way, isn't it?"

Giggling and bit worse for the wine, Molly observed, "Mary, Martha and Molly—the three Ms. We could form a secret society and call it M cubed."

Pleased to see that Molly was thoroughly relaxed and enjoying herself, Mary offered, "Or the three M-igos?" After the resulting groans died down from the atrocious pun, she addressed Mrs. Hudson's earlier concern, "The situation won't last forever and John and I have a holiday planned for next weekend. Just the two of us. Anyways, I don't much think John is the type to cheat. He may be attracted to danger but he still has a soldier's code of honor. Besides, he knows I'd bloody well kill him."

Clapping her hands with delight, Mrs. Hudson offered, "I can watch the little one if you like. Of course, it'd be best if I stayed at your place. You never know who or what Sherlock is going to drag home. Not the most conducive to having a baby around. You'll have to cure him of that, Molly."

"Mrs. Hudson…" Molly began only to stop at the elder woman's reproachful look. "Martha, Sherlock and I are _not_ going to have babies. I mean can you really imagine Sherlock as father? More importantly, ours is not that kind of marriage."

Ignoring the last part of Molly's objections, because young people could be so unaware of things, Mrs. Hudson conceded, "I suppose you're right, Molly. Sherlock as father might be a bit dodgy. I do hope you took that into account before marrying him."

Deciding to save her friend from the uncomfortable conversation, Mary interjected, "Thanks for the offer, Martha, but we've already a lined up an old friend." The second the words were out of her mouth, she realized her error but it was too late to pull them back.

Both of the other women looked at her and simultaneously asked, "Who?'

Throwing an apologetic glance towards Molly, Mary admitted, "Janine."

Mrs. Hudson clicked her tongue in reproach, "Mary, I'm not one to go around butting into to other people's business, but do really think that wise? I mean those newspaper headlines! Some things should be left private, don't you think? And think of poor Molly having Sherlock's ex-girlfriend about," here she paused for a moment as an idea occurred to her, "Though I guess you do have to put up with Sherlock and Molly has to put up with John. Though that's not really quite the same thing is it. Different bits and pieces, if you know what I mean?"

Thankfully, the doorbell rang and saved Molly and Mary from having to reply. "Oh, that'll be the take-out. Lovely thing take-out. I remember once Frank and I… well that's a story for later. I'll pop down and get it. You two get the plates."

As the two younger women gathered the plates and utensils, Mary apologized, "I'm sorry, Molly. Didn't mean to for that topic to come up tonight."

"Don't be silly, Mary. I have a past and Sherlock has a past. It has nothing to do with our current relationship." Molly carefully folded three napkins and placed them under the utensils. "No, that's not really true. Actually, Janine has a lot to do with our current relationship. When their love affair was splashed all over tabloids, I made a startling discovery. It didn't bother me. Sherlock had been sleeping with another woman and it didn't bother me one little bit," Molly's tone revealed her wonderment of the situation. "Their affair confirmed what I had always known deep down inside-that he would never view me romantically. The really amazing thing is that I also realized that I was no longer in love with Sherlock."

This revelation was that last thing that Mary had expected when she had let slip Janine's name. She'd expected tears or anger, but not this. "Not to put too fine a point on it, but then why the bloody hell did you marry him?"

Molly laughed and took quick sip of wine. "I can see why you're confused. Hardly seems to make sense, does it? Well, when I stopped being _in love_ with him, I could just love him and enjoy being around him. At least that's what my therapist says. I think she's right, you know. I've always been rubbish at romantic relationships and had fallen into the habit of using Sherlock as the reason why. When Sherlock proposed we marry for companionship, it dawned on me that a marriage of that type suited me very well. So, you see, I'm really rather grateful to Janine for helping me to see that my feelings had changed and for helping Sherlock to see what he wanted as well."

Through narrowed eyes, Mary studied Molly. Molly was telling the truth, or the truth as she consciously knew it. "What does your therapist think about the arrangement?"

"Like everyone else, she thought it a bit odd at first. I think she was distrustful of Sherlock's motives. Not surprising, given his reputation and the things we'd discussed. But once I pointed out that Sherlock had never knowingly done anything to hurt me, she agreed that it might be the right course for me. I invited her to the wedding but she couldn't come because she was out of town at a conference."

"Shame that. She sounds interesting. I'd like to have met her and had a chat." Privately, Mary thought she sounded like a quack. What sort of therapist would encourage a client to continue to delude herself about her real feelings?

"By the way, I don't think I ever properly thanked you for the lovely job you did on planning the wedding. His parents were so very happy. I doubt they thought they'd ever have the chance to attend such an occasion. If it'd been left to me and Sherlock, we'd have ended up in a pub somewhere."

This time Mary couldn't hide her surprise. "You mean Sherlock didn't tell you?"

"Tell me what?"

Mrs. Hudson, who had caught the last few seconds of the conversation, came bustling into the room with several plastic carriers and supplied the answer, "Why it was Sherlock who did most of the planning, dear. He kicked up a right fuss about it, he did. I thought he'd been bad about John and Mary's wedding but this time he was a downright tyrant. Everything so particular, right down to the last detail. He nearly had the florist in tears demanding just the right shade of pink and I thought he and Georgie would come to blows over your dress. Georgie had chosen some big lacey confection but Sherlock insisted you would look like a meringue in it and that a simple style suited you better. As usual, Sherlock won."

Molly opened her mouth to reply to this news but could not think of a single thing to say. This was a side of Sherlock she'd not known existed. Filing that piece of information away for later examination, she simply said, "Right then. Shall we eat? I'm starved."

As they unpacked the food, Mary reflected on what Molly had said before Mrs. Hudson had come back upstairs. The worst of it was that Molly's conclusions were all built on a house of cards which could come tumbling down at any point. If her proof of getting over Sherlock lay in her lack of reaction to the love affair, what would she do if the truth of the matter came out? After the headlines had died down, Janine had confided to Mary her disappointment in Sherlock's lack of ardor. Contrary to the stories, Sherlock and Janine had never gone further than kissing and petting—much to Janine's frustration. Janine's last words on the matter had been a snide remark about Sherlock saving himself for marriage.

Mary's worrying thoughts were curtailed as Mrs. Hudson observed, "I think we may have ordered too much, girls. Ah well, better too much than too little. Now, let me tell you about Frank and what he used to do with take-out."

Molly and Mary giggled as they filled their plates with food. Settling down, they eagerly listened as Mrs. Hudson related one salacious anecdote after another. It seemed that not so dearly departed Frank had really known his way around a chopstick. By the time Mrs. Hudson had finished with her stories, the stomachs of all three women were sore from a combination of laughing and overeating.

Passing around the fortune cookies, Molly asked, "Have you ever played the in bed game?" Seeing the question on the faces of the two, Molly elaborated, "You read your fortune out loud in your sexiest voice and end it with 'in bed'. I'll go first." Molly opened the cellophane and broke open the cookie. For a moment she frowned at the slip of paper and then giggled, "Well, it's the oddest fortune I've ever gotten but I guess it works." Clearing her throat, she pouted her lips and whispered, "U in bed."

Laughing, Mary opened her cookie and observed, "I seem to have received the texting version of fortune cookies. It's only one letter." Shrugging her shoulders, she read in an artificially husky voice, "I in bed."

Molly complained, "Mine was also only one letter. They've given us defective cookies. Go on, Martha, what do you have? An emoticon?"

Not understanding Molly's joke, Mrs. Hudson looked puzzled as she breathily read, "O in bed."


	5. Cyprinidae

Snuggling together on the sofa, Mary and John enjoyed a rare moment of peace and quiet. Sophie was fed, changed and peacefully sleeping at the moment. More importantly their grown child, Sherlock, had departed a few hours ago to follow up on a lead. He'd done his best to badger John into going with him, but John and Mary had joined forces and put their collective feet down. As new parents time alone with each other was something to be cherished. Although Sherlock was a dear friend, they had not been willing sacrifice this chance to talk to each other and catch up on things. So, in the funny way that the universe works, their talk soon turned to the topic of Sherlock.

"What did Sherlock want earlier? You and he seemed pretty involved in your discussion. Was it about a case?"

John weighed his options. He could try to brush off the question with a non-committal response or white lie but that was unlikely to work. For Christ sakes, if Mary could tell when Sherlock was lying, what chance did he stand of fooling her? John had been working on his poker face but he knew he had a long way to go before he could match Sherlock's, or for that matter Mary's, skills. He could throw himself on her mercy and claim man-cave confidentiality rules. Or, he could do what he would eventually end up doing anyway, and tell her about what he and Sherlock had been discussing. "We were discussing his decision to marry Molly."

This announcement caused Mary to pull away and sit up. "Really? Sherlock actually talked to you about that?

"Yeah, with the way he reacted the last time I brought it up, I was a bit surprised myself. You know Sherlock's never been one for heart to hearts. Damn uncomfortable it was." As he replayed the conversation in his mind, John started to grin.

"Well come on, give over, husband," Mary prodded. "What's the story?"

"He says it's not because of Moriarty being back. He said it's because he…, " John stopped torn between keeping his best friend's confidence and confiding in his wife.

Sensing her husband's dilemma, Mary finished the sentence for him. "He's lonely, isn't he? Sherlock is lonely. Though I imagine he didn't use that word. Rather too touchy-feely for Sherlock, inna it?"

Thankful for her intervention, John leaned over and gave his wife a kiss. "I love you, Mrs. Watson."

"Did he tell you anything else?"

John thought about it and decided that Sherlock wouldn't mind if he told Mary about Janine. After all, Sherlock had seemed proud of the fact. "Yeah, well, seems the newspapers got it wrong. Shag –A-Lot- Holmes is more like Kiss-And-Cuddle A–Bit -Holmes." He waited expectantly for Mary to react to this piece of big news.

Mary crinkled her nose in disapproval. "That's not much news, mister. Janine told me that weeks ago. Don't you remember me telling you about it? Oh wait, of course you don't. There was a football match on the telly. God forbid, you actually listen to me when there's a Man United match on, "she teased.

Abashedly, John offered, "Er… I must have missed that bit." In a show of apology, he patted his lap and gestured for her to put her feet up. After massaging them for a few minutes and eliciting groans of pleasure from Mary, John dropped the biggest piece of news, "Sherlock thinks Molly is going to have an affair and I'm ninety-nine percent certain he's green with jealousy about it."

"Well that's a bit of rubbish, isn't it? Molly have an affair?" Mary sighed and ran her hand through her hair in frustration. "You men can be so thick at times."

John held his hands up in mock surrender. "Hey, don't shoot the messenger. It's Sherlock's deduction, not mine. I only hope that he doesn't tell her about Janine. Molly only agreed to Sherlock's ridiculous notion of a marriage after those headlines wiped out all her hope for more with him. If she finds out they weren't true…" He was stopped from continuing by Mary's lips on his. After several pleasurable moments he pulled back and inquired, "What was that for?"

"That was for you being you, my love. Sherlock may be brilliant at reading clues and crime scenes and I can calculate the best shot from any angle or distance, but you, dear John, always notice the emotions."

The look on John's face demanded further explanation.

"Molly told me almost exactly the same thing earlier tonight. But you knew about Molly's motives without being told. Molly said her romantic feelings for Sherlock were squashed when he got involved with Janine." Mary shook her head in dismay. "When she learns the truth, it's going to get very complicated."

"When? _When_ and not _if_ she learns the truth?"

"Well, I'm not planning on telling her and I'm sure you're not either. But the truth will out. It always does, doesn't it?"

John pulled a wry face, "Yeah, you're right about that, especially when Sherlock is involved. Well, we will all cross that bridge when it comes. Meanwhile, Mrs. Watson, we've a sleeping baby and some time on our hands. Any idea of how to fill it besides discussing Sherlock?"

"Oh, I can certainly think of a thing or two, Dr. Watson."

* * *

He hesitated for only a millisecond at the threshold before entering the darkened room and crossing to the drinks trolley. Mycroft poured himself a finger of Dalmore. Without turning, he inquired, "Care for a drink, Sherlock?"

"You're slipping, Mycroft. I could have garroted you twice over."

"I'll take that as a yes, shall I?" Mycroft poured a second glass. He crossed over to his brother and handed him the drink before taking the chair opposite. He delicately sniffed the air. "Smoking again, brother? Mother won't approve."

"Not exactly your finest deduction, Mycroft. Besides, you're one to talk. Mind if I turn a light on or are you intent upon pretending you are part of a Le Carre novel?"

Mycroft snapped on a tabletop lamp and a warm glow filled the room. He took in his brother's disheveled appearance from the dirty t-shirt printed with some pop reference to a police callbox to the jeans with several ragged holes in them. Wrinkling his nose with distaste, he asked, "You couldn't find the time to change out of your play clothes before popping over?"

Sherlock gave a large, insincere smile. "Sorry to offend your sartorial sensibilities but the matter is urgent."

"Ah, yes, I'd gathered that from your decision to break into my home at three in the morning." Although he commented in his usual languid tone, the sudden tenseness in his pose telegraphed his interest. "You have news of our mutual _friend_?"

"Yes. I found out quite a few things your operatives missed, Mycroft. You're getting sloppy in your old age. The trail of breadcrumbs which led the Metropolitan to belatedly deduce that Richard Brook was indeed Moriarty was deliberately laid for them to follow."

"Deliberately? How do you come to that conclusion? Perhaps Moriarty was simply more careless than we'd thought."

Sherlock shook his head and reproved, "Don't treat me like a child. Underneath the topmost trail that Lestrade's men were led to follow were the muddy plus nines of MI6. They'd been looking for the threads to pull and unweave Moriarty's tapestry of lies that created Richard Brooks. If MI6 couldn't find the strands in almost two years, they weren't there to be pulled. That only leaves one rational conclusion: the path that the Met followed was created almost two years after Moriarty's death."

Mycroft leveled an intense stare at Sherlock. After a few uncomfortable moments, he tossed back the rest of his scotch and went to refill his glass. With his back to his brother, he softly remarked, "Sherlock, you wound me with what you are implying. Do you really think I'd have left you in exile for two years if I had a way to clear your name sooner?"

Sherlock was startled to hear a genuine note of hurt in Mycroft's voice. "No?"

"No," Mycroft answered decisively and returned to his chair.

Sighing, Sherlock ran both of his hands through his hair before clasping them together and leaning forward. "I was afraid of that. If it wasn't you, there was only one other person who could have done this. But _why_ did Moriarty dismantle the ruse?"

"Come now, Sherlock. Has your time swimming amongst your goldfish deprived your mind of needed oxygen? You know the answer to that. He wants his playmate back," Mycroft condescendingly observed.

Eyes narrowed in anger, Sherlock hissed, "They are not goldfish, Mycroft. They are my friends, not that you would understand what the word means. One of them is now my wife."

"Yes, your recent blissful nuptials. Mum is over the moon about your choice of goldfish. I suppose she may have a point. You could have chosen a piranha like your friend John."

"Mycroft."

Sherlock only uttered the one word. However, a lifetime of experience with his brother informed Mycroft that he had pushed Sherlock too far. Realizing the conversation was not going to advance under this topic, Mycroft queried, "Your evidence to indicate this is indeed Moriarty and not a copycat? Since the television broadcast, there hasn't been anything to indicate he is still alive. The Prime Minster is convinced that it was some hacking group using the stunt as a trial run for something bigger. "

"I. O. U."

"Why yes, Sherlock, you owe me a great deal. Without my running interference, you would still be in Serbia. But why bring it up now?"

Scowling, Sherlock precisely enunciated, "I. O. U. Three little letters are how I am certain it is Moriarty. Moriarty was obsessed during the days preceding my demise. He left the message for me everywhere."

"And?"

"Now the message has started to appear again, most recently at my wedding reception. A congratulatory telegram addressed to Mr. and Mrs. Holmes was delivered to me. The message was simply I.O.U. ." Sherlock threw his glass across the room in frustration. The crystal shattered as it hit the wall, leaving sharp shards and amber colored droplets on the Persian rug. "He's threatening Molly. How long before he threatens John and Lestrade again? What about Mary and the baby?" Sherlock jumped up and began agitatedly pacing the room. "Moriarty is a dead man who is alive. I have been searching for an answer for the inexplicable."

Mycroft smiled a small smile that would have caused many to turn and run in fear. "No need to waste good scotch, Sherlock. Fortunately, the Holmes brothers are experts at explaining the inexplicable. We'll catch him, brother mine. After all, no one but no one messes with our aquarium."


	6. A Romantic Conversation

A/N For those of you who have been reading since I first published a quick note- I've changed the name of Molly's cat to Toby. When I started the story, I did not realize there was canon on this topic. While I am not a canon Nazi, I do try to stay as true to it as possible. Oddly, by doing so, it helped with the content of this chapter.

* * *

The flat felt somehow different when Sherlock quietly let himself inside. His eyes quickly scanned the room. Nothing seemed out of place but he could not shake the feeling that something was amiss. Slowly the details filtered into his consciousness: the air smelled of vanilla with an undertone of disinfectant and the wood of the table had a sheen to it. Evidently Molly had cleaned while he was gone. After the time he'd interrupted one of her dates to inquire where she had placed the five week old slice of moldy bread which had been under the sofa, Mrs. Hudson had given up on maintaining any semblance of order to the upper half of her house. Considering her unfortunate habit of disposing of his experiments and moving about various objects and slips of paper, Sherlock had accepted Mrs. Hudson's work stoppage with more than a bit of relief.

As he caught another whiff of the inviting scent, he acknowledged to himself that some effort at sanitation might be worth the inconvenience. Mentally he began cataloguing any small changes which Molly might have made during her housekeeping. Of course, those would need to be set back to rights. He noted Molly curled up in John's old chair, absorbed in book and oblivious to his return. He smiled at her concentration. Other than himself and Mycroft, he'd never encountered another who could so completely tune out the world. Two. There were exactly two matters that needed to be addressed after Molly's cleaning efforts. Sherlock was pleasantly surprised at Molly's efforts to keep things in their right place. Crossing to the fireplace, he adjusted the skull exactly five millimeters to the right. Next he went to his chair and stood in front of it frowning.

"What is this creature doing here?"

Startled out of the make believe world in her book, Molly emitted a squeak and exclaimed, "Sherlock, you gave me a fright!" Looking guilty, she shoved the book she was reading under a cushion and jumped up to go and gather the tiny cat. Protectively cradling the cat, she performed the introductions, "Sherlock, this is Toby. I told you about him."

Sherlock repeated the name out loud as if he'd never heard it before, "Toby?" Scrunching his face up in concentration, he tried to recall what Molly had said about Toby. "Ah yes, _Toby_. You were prattling on about him while I was examining Studer's corpse." With a frown, he threw himself into his chair. "I thought you were talking about a boyfriend not a cat. Why have you been hiding him these past few weeks?"

Molly's mouth opened and closed in bafflement. Not certain which of the issues to address first, she opted for the easier one. "I have not been hiding Toby. He's been here since the day of our wedding. He's just shy and timid. Until you left for these past few days, he was afraid to come out of my room. I think your voice scares him." She set the cat down and Toby began to sniff around the chair.

"So, Toby is a _cat_. I am not certain I approve of this beast being in my … I mean _our_ flat. Though, I suppose that like most people you are mawkishly attached to this pet of yours, so I will adapt."

"I… Thank you, I guess?" Molly was torn between being indignant at his calling Toby a beast and oddly pleased that he was trying to accommodate her. She decided to go with the latter. "Um, Sherlock? You said that you thought Toby was a boyfriend?"

"It's hardly my fault you weren't more clear, Molly. You talked about adoring this Toby of yours and how he would spend most of the time in your room. The only logical deduction was that he is a beau of yours."

"But you were okay with him sleeping in my room?"

Ignoring the slight clenching sensation in his gut, Sherlock answered, "Yes. Of course, Molly. We agreed that we would have our own lives. Naturally I'd expect you to be discreet and, given your predilection for choosing men who are sociopaths, I think it best if you give me time to vet any romantic interests before they spend the night. I understand it was not part of our agreement but it is a reasonable safety precaution."

Molly bit her lip and thought for a moment. Carefully she chose her words, "You are not a sociopath, Sherlock. I know you keep telling yourself that you are because it seems easier than the alternatives. But you're not, you know. Believe me, I'm an expert. After all, I did date Moriarty."

Narrowing his eyes, Sherlock leveled an intense and accusatory stare at her. "Why are you saying this, Molly? Don't try to turn me into one of your romantic heroes like you've been reading about in Ms. Lauren's and Ms. Alexander's books. "

Blushing and embarrassed because Sherlock had learned of her guilty pleasure, Molly nonetheless found his comment so funny that she couldn't help but laugh out loud.

A now scowling Sherlock demanded, "What is so humorous?"

"Sherl…," her response was interrupted by another fit of giggles. Several seconds later, under the glare of Sherlock's gaze, Molly composed herself enough to continue, "You are, Sherlock. You're hardly the romantic ideal, you know. Not that it matters. That's not really part of our relationship, is it? Believe me, I no more expect you to sweep me into a passionate embrace than I'd expect Mycroft to break into song and dance."

Sherlock acknowledged her observation with a slight quirk of the lips. "Oh, I don't know about that, Molly. I can imagine Mycroft rendering a believable Henry Higgins." The two of them enjoyed a moment of shared amusement before Sherlock continued, "Molly, I am much more Mycroft than I am John."

Her amusement vanishing, Molly considered this comment. She studied the man across from her. He was still as handsome as ever, still as brilliant and still as fascinating. During the past few years she'd gone from having a schoolgirlish crush on him; to falling in love with the man she thought he could be; to becoming a friend; and, finally, to accepting him as the man he truly was. He was man who, for whatever unknown reason, denied the evidence of his own ability to care for others. Despite the briefness of their interactions, she'd viewed the same habit in the elder Holmes brother. "Sherlock, Mycroft isn't even Mycroft."

The astuteness of Molly's statement stunned Sherlock. She was forever surprising him. Molly Hooper had a talent for seeing what others wanted to keep hidden. Oh, her ability was nothing like his gifts for observation. Yet, the difference made it no less useful. Molly was like John in that she always placed people first. While Sherlock could not understand how they were so comfortable with the messiness and uncertainty of emotions, he could appreciate their value. In fact, he'd come to value Molly Hooper very dearly, which was why he'd suggested this marriage in the first place. Simply put, he did not wish to lose her.

"Sherlock, back to the earlier topic. I don't think I'd be very comfortable having my husband vet my boyfriends. If I feel the need for physical companionship, I'll keep it away from the flat."

"Do you think you will?" The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them. The subject had been on his mind since it first occurred to him that she was about to have an affair. In fact, there was a now a whole room devoted to it in his mind palace. A room to which he kept trying to firmly shut the door, only to find it swinging open at the most inopportune times.

Molly considered the question. She noticed that at some point during their conversation Toby had jumped into Sherlock's lap and was now contentedly purring as Sherlock's long fingers absently stroked his fur. She felt her neck arch in response to an imagined caress. It disconcerted her. "I… I really don't know, Sherlock. I do enjoy some kissing and cuddling and sex can be great fun. Yet, it's not a priority for me. Obviously." Molly shrugged her shoulders. "It always seems to be so much more work than it's worth if you must know. A romantic relationship I mean."

Sherlock sent a quizzical gaze at her before reaching over and plucking the book from under the cushion. Toby gave a loud mew of protest at being so unceremoniously dumped to the floor. Ignoring the cat, Sherlock began to read out loud, "_His fascination with her was obsession, overwhelming and complete. But he never dreamed she was so very different from all the other others_."

"Sherlock," protested a flustered Molly.

Ignoring her, he continued to read the jacket blurb precisely enunciating each word, "_But Gabriel intends to exact a payment only a Cynster would demand: for every bit of information he uncovers, the lady must reward him… with a kiss._"

This time Molly's protest was more vociferous and angry, "Sherlock, stop it!" She grabbed the book away from him. "Yes, I know they are silly. But they do serve a purpose you know. Yes, I am a romantic. A hopeless romantic, if you must know. But I'm also a practical romantic. Men like this don't exist. I know that. Believe me, if anyone knows that, it's me. The stories are an escape. A mental vacation from daily life." She defensively folded her arms across her chest.

Sherlock heard John's voice chiding him, "_Sherlock, you arse." _Contritely, he apologized, "I am sorry, Molly. You allow me my eccentricities. I should allow you yours without comment."

"It's okay, Sherlock. You were only being you. I'm used to it."

Unhappy that she was still put out with him and wanting the camaraderie of a few minutes ago back, Sherlock joked, "Kisses as for payment for information. Hm... I wonder what Lestrade would do if I suggested that method?" He was rewarded with Molly's giggle. As the two shared the joke, he realized that he loved Molly's giggle. It was one of the few things in his world without guile or cynicism. The serious turn of his thoughts must have reflected on his face for Molly also grew somber again.

"Sherlock, I _am_ okay with this marriage. I know that I'm not really your type. I mean romantically. It's okay. I don't want anything else from you."

Sherlock nodded and took a few moments to precisely choose his words. "Good. That's good, Molly, because I am incapable of giving you more."

"I know that, Sherlock." Wanting to break the once again tense atmosphere in the room, Molly stood up. "Enough of this rehashing of what we already know. It's gone seven and I'm starved. I'm betting you've not eaten properly the past few days. Fish and chips from Frankie's?"

"That sounds good. I'll pop out and bring some back." Noting Molly's astonished gaze, he added "I am capable of contributing a bit to things, you know. Besides, I'm dressed and you're in those dreadful footies you insist upon wearing." Sherlock was up and out the door before Molly could reply. Turning his collar up, he ignored the passing cabs and began the lengthy walk to Frankie's. He needed the time alone the walk would afford him- time to think about why Molly's calm and complete acceptance of the limitations to their marriage left him feeling so very vulnerable.


	7. A Card Would Have Been Easier

Sherlock shoved the distractions of the room away. Studying the corpse, the observations began their customary habit of flooding his consciousness almost faster than he could speak. "Recently divorced, father of two, banker-no wait- an accountant, heavy weekend drinker, dead for three_ish_ hours, killed by…" His deductions were interrupted by John's voice raised to the level of a near shout.

"Sherlock! Sherlock, aren't you going to answer that?"

Turning in annoyance, Sherlock scowled at John and snapped, "John, you know better than to distract me. Quit acting like Anderson and do something useful. Shut up and tell me what you make of this wound." About to turn back to the body, his mobile began signaling the arrival of text messages. Ignoring it, he took a deep breath and began to refocus.

Kneeling next to his friend, John discreetly whispered, "Uh, Sherlock, you might want to answer that. It's Molly."

"Molly?" parroted Sherlock sounding as if he had no idea who that was.

"Er, yeah mate, Molly. Your wife? She's been ringing and texting for the past ten minutes."

"It can't be Molly. She would not disturb while I'm on a case. We've an agreement." Sherlock looked offended that John would even suggest such a possibility. His phone began ringing again.

"Yeah. Well unless you've two people in your contact list with the theme from _Quincy _as their ringtone, then it's Molly."

Sherlock stared at John as if he were speaking an unknown language. "Quincy? What? Who is that?" Now completely distracted from the task at hand, Sherlock impatiently pulled the phone from his pocket. The phone had already stopped ringing so he began reading the texts. Two seconds later, he was up and headed for the door, heedless of the evidence he was trampling over. "Come on, John. Stop dawdling. We're in a hurry."

Lestrade objected, "Oi, Sherlock, what about the body?"

Sherlock paused and without even bothering to turn around, prattled off, "Killed with a tire iron by his paramour. She's pregnant and wanted to marry. He told her he was going back to his wife. You'll find her at the Temperance Pub. She'll be the waitress with long blonde hair, five foot two with a bad case of acne. Hurry, John!"

* * *

As they whizzed through the streets narrowly missing pedestrians and running at least run red light, John asked, "Sherlock, mind telling me why the rush?" He'd tried to contain his curiosity but, other than promising the cabbie a tenner of they arrived at St. Bart's in under ten minutes, Sherlock had not said a word since they'd left the crime scene.

Instead of replying, Sherlock just handed his phone over to John. Lost in his own thoughts, he muttered incoherently and drummed his fingers impatiently on his knee as John scrolled through the texts.

**Sherlock-call me. M**

**Sherlock-This is Molly not Mycoft.**

**Sorry for any confusion. Mol**

**Something very interesting at morgue. Mol**

**Not answering your phone? Mol**

**Sherlock- does _И.__О. У. _mean anything to you? Mol**

"Well does it?"

Sherlock came back to the surroundings of the cab. "Does what?"

"Does it mean anything to you, Sherlock? And don't tell me it's obvious because it isn't or I wouldn't be asking."

"Oh yes, John. It means something very important indeed."

They arrived before John could ask for further clarification. Sherlock was out of the cab before it had even come to a complete stop. John fumbled for his wallet and pulled out the fare as well as the promised tenner. For once, John did not feel the usual flare of irritation at being left to pay. Sherlock was in a state unlike John had ever seen him in before. Practically throwing the money at the cabbie, John quickly sprinted towards the entrance trying to catch up to Sherlock. He reached him just as Sherlock was entering the autopsy room.

"Molly?" Sherlock called to the room at large. When he did not receive an immediate answer, he began noisily searching the room and bellowed, "Molly!"

Molly came rushing in through the back door. "Sherlock, please, I've a family in the other room waiting to claim their son. Your shouting is disturbing them," she softly chided.

Completely ignoring the admonishment, Sherlock demanded, "Where is it? Where is the message?"

Molly walked over to one of the stainless steel gurneys. As she unzipped the black body bag, she explained, "This is Sam Carlson. He's fifty years old and died in the hospital, presumably from kidney failure. I was about to start the autopsy when I noticed this." Molly pointed to a small tattoo of what appeared to be three letters above the heart area. As both men, leaned in to take a closer look, she continued on, "I wouldn't have thought anything of it but I've seen portions of it before on two other corpses this week. Always above the heart and in the same green ink. It made me curious."

The only sign Sherlock gave that he actually heard Molly was a slight nod. After a few minutes examining the body, Sherlock demanded, "The others. Where are the others?"

"Um, one of them, the first one, Jacob Welsh, was cremated yesterday but the other two are still here. I've brought them out for you to look at." As she walked between two gurneys, Molly gestured towards the one on her left, "This one is Stephen James. He died in his flat-cardiac arrest. Sixty-eight year old widower. No children or family to be found. He was the second one to come in with the tattoo, but as you can see, he only has one letter tattooed." Indicating the other gurney, she continued her recitation. "This is Charles Littlefield. Also only one letter. Died from a glioblastoma. He was only fifteen," her voice shook a bit as she revealed this bit of information.

Molly began nervously clicking her pen. She didn't want to admit her failure to Sherlock. Clearing her throat, she confessed, "I missed the tattoo on Charles when I first did the autopsy. Earlier today, when I began prepping him for his parents, I saw it and remembered the tattoo on Stephen. I thought it a bit odd but didn't make too much of it until I started working on Sam Carlson this afternoon."

John patted her gently on her shoulder. Molly was obviously distraught that she hadn't made the connection sooner. "Molly, give yourself a break. Working on such a young person isn't easy. It's no wonder you didn't see such an insignificant detail on Littelfield. "

"Turned out to not be so insignificant. Sentiment makes people blind," Sherlock observed as he examined the mark through his magnifying glass.

"Sherlock." Though John's voice remained level, it contained a definite warning.

Molly placed a hand on John's forearm. "It's okay, John. He's right, you know. I allowed myself to get so caught up in the tragedy of it that I only concentrated on the tumor and overlooked something important. Not very professional of me."

Sherlock looked up from the corpse long enough to shoot John an 'I told you so' look before returning to his inspection. "What about the cremated one? Why didn't that attract your attention?"

Molly went over to the desk in the corner and retrieved a file from the stack precariously piled there. "I didn't do the autopsy on Jacob Welsh. I was out ill that day. Dr. Broad was the pathologist on that case." At Sherlock's derisive snort, Molly insisted, "Dr. Broad is a skilled pathologist, Sherlock. Her notes are always thorough and detailed enough for anyone else to follow."

As Sherlock moved back to the body of Carlson, he muttered under his breath, "She's not you."

Ignoring the warm glow from his words, Molly continued with her explanation, "I've gone back through all the files from the past few weeks. That's how I found out about Jacob. There haven't been any other instances of tattoos on the chest besides these four." Molly rejoined Sherlock and John.

"This ink isn't mass produced. I'll need a cutting to test." He pulled a slim leather case from an inside pocket of his coat and opened it up. Withdrawing a scalpel, he asked, "May I?"

Both John and Molly registered surprised that Sherlock had even bothered to ask rather than just do as he pleased. Molly nodded her assent. "He has no one to claim him so it won't be an issue. I'll note it on the chart."

Sherlock carefully excised a small portion of skin and deposited it in a cellophane envelope. He placed the sample in his pocket and looked at the other two with a raise eyebrow.

"Sherlock, you're doing it again. Giving that look as if we should all know what's going on. All I can determine is that someone is using these poor blokes to send a message of some kind."

"And?"

John thought about it for a minute and added, "Whoever is doing this seems to be using bodies of opportunity as they all seem to have died from natural causes. That means it is unlikely the messages are related to them as individuals. The only thing connecting them is Molly. The bodies all came in on her shifts, except the first one and she was out sick that day or it would have been her doing that autopsy as well."

"But who would be sending me messages in Cyrillic?" Laughing at their surprised expressions, Molly admitted, "I learned a bit of Russian in college. I wanted to read the works of Dostoyevsky in the original language. The really odd thing is that I don't think whoever did this actually learned Russian. The message didn't really make any sense so I Google translated it into English. It's a bastardized form of I.O.U., I think."

"That is exactly what it's meant to convey. It's Moriarty playing his games again and sending a message to me."

Biting her lip, Molly tentatively asked, "Sherlock, is this related to how you know Moriarty is alive? I remember you saying 'I owe you' over and over again when you were working on the St. Aldate's kidnapping."

A rare note of admiration in his voice, Sherlock explained, "Yes, it is. Excellent observation and memory skills, Molly. I did not realize you remembered that. You could learn from her, John." As John's only reply was a rolling of his eyes, Sherlock continued, "He sent a telegram to our wedding reception with the same message. It had been Moriarty's own private little taunt to me in the week before our final showdown on the rooftop."

At the mention of that day, John paled a bit and began rubbing his temples as if a massive headache was beginning. "Jesus, Sherlock, are we back to that? I don't know if I can go through this again."

"Don't worry, John. This time I'll let you help him kill me," Sherlock quipped.

"Not funny, Sherlock. Besides, if you are even thinking of pulling a stunt like that again, I won't need Moriarty's help. I'll manage it all by myself." Both men chuckled at the dark humor.

"Um, guys, there's more. The reason the message intrigued me so much was because I've received it before. Last week, when Mary, Mrs. Hudson and I were having Chinese food, the fortunes in our fortune cookies consisted entirely of the letters I, O, and U. Didn't think much of at the time but with this happening…"

All traces of humor immediately vanished from Sherlock's demeanor and he began to gaze off into the distance without really seeing what was physically in front of him. John and Molly recognized it as Sherlock's method of processing this new information and synthesizing it with old information and quietly awaited his conclusion. It didn't take long. His voice low and intense, he muttered, "Molly, I've been a fool. I thought our marriage would help protect you. Instead, it's put you in the direct line of fire. Forgive me."

Both Molly and John stared at him in amazement for a moment before their faces began to reveal their hurt. John found his voice first. "Sherlock, you _told me_ that you didn't…"

In a stricken voice, Molly cut across John's censure to inquire, "You lied to me when you said you wanted a companion and equal? Is this why you married me? Out of some misguided idea of you owing me and me needing protection?"

His voice fairly dripping with a combination of indignation and disdain, Sherlock objected, "No!"

"Which question are you answering, Sherlock?"

"No, I did not marry you out of a sense of _obligation. _Sociopath, you know? Not exactly given to worrying about social transactions. I married you because…" Sherlock's tirade stopped short. An odd expression across his face for a millisecond before he regrouped. "This doesn't matter now. Moriarty is back and he is targeting you. That could be distracting. Lestrade will have to put some men on you and you'll have to stick to the flat and here for now. Less ground to cover that way."

Hurt had morphed into anger. Molly shoved both of her fists into the pockets of her lab coat to prevent herself from hitting him. "_Distracting_? Sherlock, I am not going to hide. You're the consulting detective, find him. Meanwhile, I am going to live my life normally which includes going to the party tomorrow."

"Party?" His confusion was evident.

Through clenched teeth, Molly bit out, "Yes, party. At John and Mary's place. You promised you'd come but don't let that worry you. Lestrade and half the Met will be there so no need for you to be _distracted_ over my safety." Molly closed her eyes and took a deep breath. "Now I have to go tell the Littlefield family that their son is ready to be released to them. John, I'll see you tomorrow. Sherlock, please leave before the family comes in." Without waiting for a reply, she left.

John waited for the door to close completely before breaking his recent silence. He knew better than to get in the middle of a fight between man and wife-no matter how unusual their marriage might be. He whistled softly and shook his head before observing, "You've really put your foot in it there, Sherlock."

His lip curling with derision, Sherlock drawled, "Because I forgot a party? There are more important things to worry about at the moment. I thought Molly was more sensible than this."

"Sherlock, the party is for Molly's birthday."

Comprehension dawned and Sherlock raised a brow. "Not good then?"

Unable to completely hide his glee at his friend's predicament, John chuckled, "Oh, very much not good, Sherlock. Look, I don't begin to understand the relationship between you and Molly, but I can tell you that you just hurt her very much. It's going to cost you some serious groveling."

Sherlock considered this for a moment before sniffing, "I don't do groveling, John."

Both men headed towards the exit. As they reached the door, Sherlock began to button his coat and then he paused for a moment. "Hypothetically speaking, how exactly does one grovel?"

* * *

A/N This story has really gotten away from me. I will be changing the rating to an M in the near future. Yes, there will be some romance but there will also be some serious aspects to the mystery which will require a higher rating. Next chapter should have some fun fluff.

Thank you to all who take the time to review.


	8. Happy Birthday, Molly Hooper

Sherlock lay on the sofa staring up at the ceiling. The steady whump-whump-whump as the ball hit the ceiling was soothing as he gathered his scattered thoughts. Thankfully, Molly was still at work so there was no danger of her coming down from her room and demanding that he stop throwing the ball. "John proved completely unhelpful. Not a single useful suggestion." Restless again, Sherlock caught the ball as it rebounded, stuffed it in the pocket of his navy dressing gown and jumped up from the sofa. Prowling the room, he groused, "His first suggestion was to bribe her with a piece of expensive jewelry." Stopping in front of John's old chair, he demanded, "She barely wears any jewelry. Have you ever seen her wear an expensive piece of jewelry?"

When the chair's occupant didn't deign to reply to what was obviously a rhetorical question, Sherlock continued his complaint, "Flowers, chocolates and romantic movies were amongst his other _brilliant _ideas. Do women really fall for those tricks? I think Molly is more intelligent than that, don't you?"

The only response Sherlock received was a bored stare delivered with an infinitely superior attitude.

Sherlock recalled John's last recommendation. The one John had termed his nuclear option-the one guaranteed to wipe out all hostility residing in a female of the human species. Sherlock snickered as he recalled John's earnest insistence that this was the answer to all of his problems. Obviously, marriage has thoroughly addled John's brain. He scoffed, "John wanted me to frequent a place called Victoria's Secret and purchase Molly frilly undergarments. Molly Hooper, the most practical woman I know, in silly nightgowns and _thongs_? Can you see her wearing those things?" demanded Sherlock of his companion.

A bored yawn met his frustrated questioning.

Sherlock flung himself into his chair and bitterly complained, "You are of no assistance at all. Of what use are you? I only have a few hours to find her a suitable gift. Don't you have a single suggestion?"

Mrs. Hudson came bustling into the room carrying a tea tray. "Yoohoo, Sherlock dear, I've brought you tea." She looked about the room in confusion. "Sherlock, who were you speaking to?" Following his gaze, she found her answer. "Toby? You were speaking to _Toby_, Sherlock?' She laughed and teased, "Next you'll be asking him to do your texting for you."

Sherlock rose from the chair, ostensibly to take the tea tray from her, but he really did so that he had the advantage of height. He looked condescendingly down at her and drawled, "Of course not, Mrs. Hudson. Unless Toby is secretly employed by Cravendale, he does not have the requisite thumbs for such an endeavor." He winked at her before heading towards the kitchen.

Following him, Mrs. Hudson clapped her hands in delight, "Oh Sherlock, I love those commercials. So clever, aren't they?" Noticing the mess, she scolded, "Really, Sherlock, you need to make more of an effort. Poor Molly can hardly feel at home here with you keeping it like a bachelor pad. She's not John you know. Anyway, you'd best get a move on. Here you are lounging about in your dressing gown and the party is only a few hours away."

Sherlock stilled for a moment before setting the tray down with such force the cups rattled. Whirling around, he grabbed her by the shoulders and planted a kiss on her cheek. "You are marvelous, Mrs. Hudson. Absolutely marvelous. No time for tea. I've a present to go purchase."

* * *

The party was in full swing and more successful than Mary had anticipated. If she were of a mind to be cynical about it, she would attribute the excellent attendance to the promise of free food and drink. Lord knew the Met officers had descended on the buffet table like a horde of locusts. They devoured so much that two hours into the party she'd sent John out on a run to replenish the noshes. However, a table overflowing with gifts for Molly bore testament to the real draw of the party. Everyone here obviously adored her. Mary suspected that the anger they'd all felt upon learning of Sherlock's faked suicide would be nothing to what would occur if Sherlock ended up hurting Molly.

Thankfully, after a few furtive glances towards the door in the first half hour of the party, Molly appeared to take Sherlock's absence in stride. During the past hours, Mary had seen Molly laugh, chatter with everyone, dance a bit and even engage in some light flirtation with Greg. Without Sherlock in the room making her self-conscious, Molly absolutely sparkled. Glancing at her watch, Mary grimaced. There was no use putting it off any longer. Sherlock or no Sherlock it was time to cut the birthday cake and open the presents.

There was a great deal of laughter and teasing as everyone gathered around the cake and the candles were lit. Anderson even made a clever quip about fire hazards. It was during the second chorus of _Happy Birthday_ that a melodic baritone joined in. Mary breathed a sigh of relief and scanned the room to find Sherlock at the back of crowd gathered round Molly. Her eyes met his and she gave him an approving nod and smile. Sherlock, looking inordinately pleased with himself, nodded back.

* * *

Molly was having a fantastic time. The evening had been great fun and things had become even better now that Sherlock had finally shown up. The two of them had not spoken since their spat at the morgue. When she'd arrived home tonight and he was not there, she'd assumed he would was not going to attend at all so she made arrangements for Greg to escort her to the party. As irritated as Molly might be at Sherlock, she took his warning to heart. There was no sense in going out alone and tempting Moriarty, not when she had friends on the Met to squire her about.

As she started to open another present, it occurred to her that she was perfectly comfortable as the center of attention. Strange that. Growing up, she'd always felt uneasy with being in the spotlight and that had stayed with her well into adulthood. Oh, she'd grown more confident in medical school and wasn't nearly as shy as she'd been as a child, but it wasn't until fairly recently that she'd begun actually enjoying social occasions. Even Sherlock's presence no longer reduced her to a stuttering fool. It seemed that having the world's greatest detective trust you enough to help him outwit a master criminal and fake his own suicide did wonders for a girl's self-esteem.

Pulling the paper off, she revealed three boxed sets of _Quincy_ DVDs. "Thank you, Greg! How did you know that I adore this show?" She gave him a kiss on the cheek.

Lestrade flushed with pleasure. With pretend modesty he revealed, "It was nothing, Molly. I heard your ringtone on Sherlock's phone and deduced it must be a favorite of yours."

From the corner of the room, Sherlock's voice acerbically commented, "Ah yes, brilliant police work that. The criminal element of London had best beware."

Molly shot him and quelling look and addressed Lestrade again, "It is a very thoughtful gift, Greg."

A lovely pair of earrings, two scarves and a book entitled _How To Tell If Your Cat Is Plotting To Kill You_ later, she found a large box on her lap. The package was beautifully wrapped with an expensive paper and pale green grosgrain ribbon, but there was no tag attached. As she carefully untied the ribbon, intending to keep it for use in her hair, she noted that Sherlock had moved much closer to her chair.

"Sherlock, is this from you?"

He looked uncharacteristically unsure of himself. "I do believe it is customary to give gifts at birthday parties."

"Yes, it is, brother mine," a voice from by the door answered. "Not that we'd know much about birthday parties. Never much went in for them, did we? Still, when in Rome…" He produced a small package and held it out.

"Mycroft!" Molly set the partially open box down on the floor and went to the elder Holmes brother. "How lovely of you to come. I never thought you would but am so glad you did. Would you care for a drink?"

"I've got it, Molly, sit down. It's your night." Handing a glass to Mycroft, John commented, "I doubt it's up to your usual standards but care for a scotch, Mycroft?"

"Thank you, John. Don't mind if I do. Please continue with whatever you were doing, Ms. Hooper. I didn't mean to cause a fuss." He took a seat and gestured towards the box on the floor.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "How long were you waiting for the right moment to make a dramatic entrance, Mycroft?"

"Sherlock, be nice," Molly chided. "Mycroft, please call me Molly. We are family after all." She picked the present from Sherlock back up and continued to unwrap it, eager to see what he'd bought for her. Lifting the top of the gift box, she parted the tissue paper to reveal the contents. "Oh, they're absolutely beautiful, Sherlock," she exclaimed lifting out of black and white patterned men's style pajamas. She fingered the material. "They're silk! And look, there is a matching dressing gown." Molly pulled out the robe and several of the women crowded around to admire it.

Picking up the box lid from the floor, Sally whistled softly. "Derek Rose? That must have set the freak back a fair penny." At Molly's censorious look, she grumbled, "Sorry, fr- I mean Sherlock. You've got good taste, I'll give you that."

"As valuable as I find your approbation, Sergeant Donovan, Anderson would benefit from it more than I if the smell of his aftershave on you is anything to go by."

Molly smiled. There were times when being around Sherlock felt like being a referee in a series of grudge matches. Distraction was the technique which worked the best and this time it was easy to provide. "Thank you, Sherlock. I've never owned anything so luxuriously decadent before. They're absolutely perfect."

"I'm glad you like them, Molly. You deserve some spoiling after putting up with me." At Molly's astonished gaze, he couldn't resist smirking and adding, "Besides, you needed something that won't scare away clients."

Giggling, Molly demanded, "Are you ridiculing my footies?"

Sherlock smiled broadly. "I'd never do that, Molly." He winked at her and they shared the private joke in the midst of the party.

"What, pray tell, are _footies_?" inquired Mycroft.

Molly explained and the pained expression on Mycroft's face was a source of amusement to all. A quarter of an hour later and there was only one gift left to open- Mycroft's. She unwrapped the tiny present rather gingerly. Mycroft buying her a gift was a complete surprise and she had no idea of what he would consider a suitable present. Inside was a black velvet pouch. She opened it and found a thin gold chain with a pendant. Pulling it out, she examined it. It was a tiny clossinae goldfish. The detail of the individual scales was exquisite. "It's lovely. Thank you, Mycroft."

As the gift was passed around for everyone to see, Lestrade commented, "It's a fish. I didn't know you enjoyed fishing, Molly."

The necklace had reached Sherlock and he was studying it closely. "She doesn't." Sherlock's eyes met his brother's and held. "This is an antique and quite rare. Rather an unusual choice, Mycroft."

Mycroft raised his brows and drawled, "Merely a little reminder for all of us. Something as mundane as a goldfish can be beautiful and precious sometimes, can't it Sherlock?"

* * *

Several hours later most of the guests had departed. Everyone pitched in to assist Mary with the cleanup and soon the house was back in order. John built a fire and now the remaining few were having a last drink before departing. Naturally, the talk turned towards Moriarty and what to do about him.

"Well I can tell you that I don't like being led by the nose by that maniac. But it is heartening to hear that we didn't miss the trail for two whole years. In spite of Sherlock's belief that the Met is full of idiots, I'd like to think we're more efficient than that," Lestrade commented.

Mycroft took a sip of his scotch and considered how much he should reveal of what Sherlock and he had learned during the past twenty-four hours.

Reading his brother's mind, Sherlock voiced his opinion, "We might as well tell them, Mycroft. They've a right to know since Moriarty is bound to involve them. I learned after last time that people get rather aggravated when you keep them in the dark. Besides, one or two of them might even prove useful."

"Sherlock, rude again," tutted Mrs. Hudson.

Feeling a touch like a bug under a microscope with five questioning gazes focused on him, Mycroft sighed, "Now that you've left the proverbial genie out of the bottle, Sherlock, I don't have much choice, do I? Very well then. Lestrade, your officers were not only thorough in their initial investigation, they were correct."

Mary was the first to put the pieces together. "What you're saying is..."

Sherlock cut her off, "Yes. Richard Brook was, in fact, Richard Brook. An actor who started in children's shows and then moved on to the greatest role of his life. The one worth dying for, though I doubt he started the job believing the literalness of that thought."

Silence met this announcement as each of the room's occupants struggled to make sense of the revelation.

"Moriarty is alive because it was never Moriarty who died. It was Richard Brook." Molly's voice reflected the wonderment she and the others felt. Weakly she joked, "It seems that I don't have such a thing for sociopaths after all."

"Oh, I wouldn't say that, Molly Hooper. After all, there is always me." Sherlock smiled for a brief moment and then grew serous again. "Brook was not a sociopath but he was unhinged at the end. I saw it in his eyes. Whether it was because he'd truly gone mad enough to believe he actually was Moriarty or because he was terrified knowing Moriarty would kill him for accidentally revealing the weakness in his plot, Brook willingly shot himself."

Mary nodded her head thoughtfully. In an almost admiring tone, she concluded, "Clever that. Moriarty hiring an actor to play him and then accusing you of the deed. There's always an element of the truth in the best of lies."

"So, we're back to square one? Moriarty alive. Only this time we've no idea of what he even looks like. It could be anyone." John couldn't keep some of his despair from leaking into his voice. It was bad enough when he and Sherlock had to deal with that nutter, but now there were several additional targets, not the least of which was his infant daughter.

Mycroft, reading the fear in the room, sought to reassure, "We've several people working on identifying and locating him. Not just our government but others as well. He'll be found and dealt with accordingly. It's merely a matter of time."

The ex-agent aspect of Mary came to the forefront. "That's all well and good, Mycroft, but it's us he'll want to play with. I'm certain of it. I'll place my money on Sherlock and the rest of us in this room. If any group of people will find Moriarty, it's us."

The group spent a few more hours making plans to both seek out Moriarty and make sure everyone was safe. By one in the morning, they all were tired and ready to call it a night. Molly began gathering up her gifts.

Lestrade plucked them from her arms, "Here, let me. I'll run them down to the car and then take you and Mrs. Hudson home."

Flustered, Molly protested, "Oh, that's sweet of you, Greg, but I'm not sure..."

"Nonsense, it's no bother at all. It's right on my way home."

Sherlock came up behind them. "Yes, but it _is_ my home so your chauffeuring services are not needed. I'll see Molly and Mrs. Hudson safely to Baker Street. We'll grab a cab. Be a sport and fetch one for us, won't you?" he asked and smiled his patently insincere smile; the one designed to interdict any questions or objections.

The cab ride home passed in silence. Mrs. Hudson fell asleep and Molly was wondering what had gotten into Sherlock. He seemed rather preoccupied about something but she had no idea what. Finally she decided to write it off to his concern about Moriarty being back, not that anyone could blame him.

When they got upstairs, she made to head to her bedroom and fall into bed. Sherlock's hand on her arm stopped her. "Shall I make us a cup of tea before bed, Molly?"

Molly couldn't help herself. Her mouth fell open. Sherlock never offered to make tea. Because she really was exhausted, she declined, "Thank you, but I'm knackered." Noticing that he now looked like a seven year old who had just been deprived of his favorite toy, she relented. "All right, one cup. Decaffeinated, right?"

Sherlock beamed. "You go in and sit down. I'll be right in." He headed towards the kitchen.

Molly entered the dark sitting room and made towards her usual spot. Not wanting to once again end up atop one of Sherlock's discarded experiments or Toby, she clicked on a table lamp before sitting. The sight that greeted her was a shock. Gone was what she and everyone else called John's chair and in its place was a lovely oversized, cream velvet wingback. She looked up to find Sherlock standing at the threshold to the kitchen expectantly watching her.

Overwhelmed by the thoughtfulness of his gift, Molly felt tears begin to form. Blinking them away, she smiled tremulously. "Thank you, Sherlock, I've been positively spoiled tonight but this… Thank you."

Sherlock came and stood before her. "You're welcome, Molly Hooper. I should have done this sooner. I am forever in your debt and not only for your assistance with my disappearance. You're not John, and you need to know that you have your own place in my life." Staring intently at her, he began to lean in towards her.

Having been in this situation with him before, Molly swallowed the sudden pang of longing she felt. Closing her eyes, she offered her cheek up for his kiss only to be surprised by his hand on her chin gently turning her head and the feel of his lips on hers.


	9. Consternation Regarding Osculation

Molly's eyes fluttered open at the unexpected touch. Sherlock was kissing her. He really was _kissing_ her! Sherlock's kiss acted on her feelings like a gentle rain after a long drought acts on plant. A tiny bud of suppressed hope and longing that had all but died from lack of attention began to unfurl-starting in her abdomen and spreading tentacles throughout her entire body. She'd truly thought she was over him but this one touch ruthlessly ripped away that self-delusion.

Immediately doubts and fears began to try to crowd into her consciousness. Molly told her inner voices to shut the hell up and enjoy the moment. Tomorrow she could worry about what this all meant. Right now, she was simply going to enjoy having his lips upon hers. Sherlock broke the kiss and pulled back for a moment. Murmuring, "Happy Birthday, Molly," he gathered her fully into an embrace. His head lowered again. His arms around her felt wonderful. Molly felt small and delicate and precious and cherished. It was better than she'd ever dreamt it could be. She was going to throw away all of her romance books- they'd hadn't even come close to describing what it felt like when you at last were in the right man's arms.

Then he deepened the kiss from the chaste into the carnal. And suddenly it all went pear shaped. At first Molly thought she must be crying because she was so happy. It was the only explanation for why things were so very moist. As the kiss went on, she realized that wasn't the explanation at all. Sherlock's tongue was limp and oddly passive while still being very enthusiastic. The overall effect was rather like being kissed by a St. Bernard puppy. Molly's brain began screaming in protest. This wasn't fair. It wasn't fair at all. Sherlock Holmes was a bloody awful kisser!

Molly broke the kiss and pulled away. Unable to meet his eyes, she spoke to the floor, "Thank you for the lovely gifts, Sherlock. Good night." She fled from the room as fast as her feet could carry her.

* * *

The combination of sunlight streaming through the window and Toby biting at her nose woke Molly. She groaned and sat up. Her head was throbbing from lack of sleep; at most she'd gotten half an hour's worth. Muffled sounds from downstairs indicated that Sherlock was up and about. Briefly, Molly contemplated the possibility of never leaving her room again. The last thing she wanted was to have to face Sherlock. Discarding the option as impractical, she got out of bed and donned her new dressing gown. Taking a deep breath, she resigned herself to an uncomfortable morning discussing an extremely awkward topic. Sherlock was certain to have questions after her abrupt departure last night. Reluctantly Molly made her way downstairs.

She nodded at Sherlock as she made her way into the kitchen. "Good morning, Sherlock."

Sherlock stopped reading for a moment and acknowledged her, "Good morning, Molly."

Molly began gathering ingredients and inquired without turning around, "Um…I'm going to make some breakfast. Would you care for eggs and soldiers? I mean I'm making them anyway so it's no problem. I mean if you want them that is?" Molly realized she was rambling- so much for the newly found confidence of last night.

"Molly, stop babbling." Sherlock's voice next to her ear made Molly whirl towards him and drop an egg in the process. Deftly he caught it before it hit the ground. He put the egg on the counter and then gently placed two fingers on the side of her neck. He studied at her as if she were a completely unknown quantity that puzzled him. "Elevated heart rate, shallow and rapid breathing, dilated pupils, and nervous chatter. All of the signs are there and yet you ran away last night. Why?" he demanded.

Molly silently scolded herself that she should have known Sherlock would note the inconsistencies and demand an explanation. Knowing Sherlock it was likely he'd not gone to bed at all but had instead spent the hours creating and discarding theories to fit the facts. "Sherlock, can we sit down to have this discussion?"

At his affirmative nod, she quickly poured herself a glass of juice and then went to curl up in her new chair. She needed all the fortification she could get. As he settled himself into his own chair, she made a decision. There was no need to go through this embarrassing ordeal if his kiss last night had been only a momentary whim. "Sherlock, before I answer that, I need you to answer something for me. Why did you kiss me last night? Did you do it because you thought I wanted you to? Or did you want to? Or was it an experiment? Or…, " her voice trailed off into an uncertain silence. Shrugging her shoulders, she simplified her inquiry to mirror his earlier one, "Why?"

Resting his chin on his clasped hands, he squinted and stared off into the distance. Understanding that he was gathering his thoughts and not avoiding her question, Molly patiently waited. "It's what people do, isn't it? I mean… married… people," Sherlock managed to make the comment both a question and statement of fact at the same time.

"Well, yes, but we're not really married. I mean not properly. "

"And yet we do have a marriage license and we are living together. The biological markers seem to indicate sexual compatibility. It was the next logical step."

It wasn't exactly the answer Molly wanted to hear. Far from a romantic declaration of undying love or even passion, it was the most dispassionate argument for passion that Molly could imagine. His cold and logical approach to the issue made it easier for her. "Okay. You're thinking along the lines of a friends with benefits type arrangement? That might work," she calmly replied. However, inside she was silently protesting that such an arrangement was likely to end up killing her. Last night's kiss, no matter how inept, had dropped the scales from her eyes- she was still completely and utterly in love with the man in front of her. There was no doubt about that. If she wasn't, she'd most definitely not be having this conversation. But, regardless of feelings, she had no intention of being a complete martyr. If they were going to go down this path, she damn well was going to enjoy it. That meant addressing the elephant in the room. "Okay. Well as you've deduced, I am attracted to you. I mean you're a lovely looking man, aren't you? So… anyway, the reason I broke the kiss off last night is because," she paused and took a deep breath, "well, you're bloody awful at kissing, Sherlock."

* * *

An hour later, Molly was upstairs taking a bath and Sherlock was prowling about the living room. He was still rather stunned by the way their conversation had gone. Stunned and offended. Little Molly Hooper had had the gall to tell him that he did not know how to kiss. When he'd pointed out that Janine had found his kisses more than satisfactory, she'd even become a bit shirty with him. Though, to give her some credit, after ten minutes of verbal wrangling she had agreed to disagree about Janine's opinion mattering. But then she'd pointed out that she had a great deal more experience in the kissing department than he did, thus her judgment in the matter should prevail. That had been a low blow. True, but nevertheless a low blow.

Sherlock scowled. If there was one thing he did not enjoy, it was when someone had more expertise in something than he did. He had more than half a mind to forget the whole thing. After all, he wasn't an overtly or overly passionate man. He could live without physical companionship. He'd happily done so for thirty-nine years without any ill effects.

He noticed Toby sleeping on Molly's chair. "Your mistress is impossible." He picked up the cat and retired to his own seat. As Sherlock gently stroked him, Toby began to purr. The light rumbling was soothing to Sherlock. His thoughts calmed and he reflected on the terrifying revelation that had come to him shortly after sunrise this morning; the revelation which he had deliberately withheld from Molly by answering her with a partial truth.

When he'd come back from the dead, the changes in everyone had come as a complete and utter surprise to him. Since it had been thoughts of his former life which kept him alive and sane during those two years, he'd expected everyone to remain in stasis until he returned. John's choice to move on had been difficult enough to abide but John had thought him dead. If Sherlock forced himself to be fair about it, he really couldn't blame John. The same applied to Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson. But Molly had known he was out there. If anyone should have been exactly as he left them, it should have been her.

Yet he'd come back to find that, far from pining away during his absence, she'd become engaged. True, it was to a pale copy of him, but Tom gave her things that he, Sherlock, hadn't and she enjoyed those things. Chiefly among them was 'lot's and lot's of sex'.

Then had come John and Mary's wedding with seemingly everyone ready to tell him how marriage changed people and things. It was if they had read his worst fears and took delight in tormenting him. They'd been correct. Marriage did change John. Even before the reception was over, John had been altered forever. And Sherlock had found himself leaving the reception early and on his own, as the once doting Molly completely ignored him and danced with her fiancé.

In the weeks following, he'd awaited the announcement of a wedding date for Molly and Tom with a level of concern that he still refused to examine. The same way he refused to examine the relief that coursed through him when the ring no longer graced her finger.

A feral smile crossed Sherlock's face as he remembered how poor Tom had met with such an _unfortunate _mugging after Molly had confessed her reason for breaking the engagement. Sherlock may not have wanted their union to occur but that didn't mean he would tolerate the way Tom had abused Molly's trust.

Once her engagement was broken, Sherlock had seen the solution to the worries of the previous months. It was so very elegant in its simplicity. He would marry Molly himself. That way she'd always be there and nothing would have to change. A few minor adjustments and accommodations on his part and everything else would remain the same. His well-ordered life could continue on.

_Yes, Sherlock, I'm sure those are all excellent reasons for pursuing a physical relationship with you wife and your sturm und drang over the issue is very entertaining. However, you've missed one elemental factor in your equation._

"Get out of my head, Mycroft."

_Aren't you curious about what you overlooked? It's, as you say, plain as the nose on your face._

"Go away."

_Sherlock, you're a graduate chemist. Surely you've noticed the –let's call it chemical reaction you have to Molly. Even a virgin such as yourself should know what that means, brother mine. It's what people do, Sherlock. They give into that chemistry and fall in…_

"Shut up!" Sherlock clenched his fist and angrily swiped at the air as if he could physically quell the internal voice. "Just get out and leave me alone, Mycroft. Neither of us is capable of that kind of chemistry. You should know that better than most."

_Do I, Sherlock? You might be surprised, little brother. Still, I'll leave you in peace. Though you might wish to ask yourself why the thought of your goldfish leaving terrifies you. Plain…as…the…nose…on...your...face._

Sherlock shook his head to chase away the lingering words. Desperately he clutched at the vestiges of irritation left over from Molly's rating of his kissing and fanned them back into full blown annoyance. This was a problem he could solve without engaging in maudlin self-reflection. Like anything, it only needed a bit of research. He'd taught himself to play the violin. He could teach himself to kiss to Molly's satisfaction. All he needed was a primer or two and he knew precisely where to find some.

* * *

A/N Please put down the torches and pitchforks! ;) I just couldn't make him a sex god and I rather like Molly having the upper hand for once. No need to worry though, Sherlock is a quick and motivated learner.


	10. Facing Fears

John leaned over and placed a hand on each knee, desperately trying to catch his breath. Slowly his panting subsided. He wiped the sweat dripping down his face off with his forearm. If he hadn't been on a busy London pavement, collapsing to the ground would have been a definite option. Since that alternative was off the table, he staggered over to the brick wall of a chemist's shop and used it to keep himself upright. Frustration filled him. He had been so close, so very close to catching the bastard.

John had been coming out of Speedy's when a young man in a blue jumper had burst forth from 221B with Sherlock close on his heels. Without giving it a second thought, John dropped the bag with his lunch and followed the man in blue jumper. The pursuit had lasted for more than a kilometer before John had lost him in a sea of tourists.

He hoped that Sherlock had better luck. With his eidetic memory, Sherlock was able visualize the streets even while in the midst of a chase and plot an intercepting route. On more than one occasion, a subject had gleefully celebrated losing his pursuers only to turn a corner and have Sherlock there awaiting him.

A few minutes later, John's breathing was still labored but had normalized enough for him to consider heading back to Baker Street. Straightening he prepared to hail a taxi when he saw Sherlock nonchalantly strolling his way. Too tired to even walk the half block to meet him, John waited until Sherlock was abreast of him before lamenting, "I almost," he had to pause to drag in some air, "I almost had him, Sherlock."

"You're slowing down, John. Too much home cooking has caused you to put on weight. Close to a stone, I'd estimate."

Reflexively, John corrected, "Not more than ten pounds, Sherlock."

Sherlock's only response was a raised eyebrow.

Now John was even more irritated than he had been when he first lost sight of his prey. "Sherlock, why are you here? Why aren't you chasing whoever that was?"

Hailing a taxi, Sherlock jumped in and impatiently waited for John to join him before replying, "There was no need." He pulled out his mobile, tapped the screen a few times before leaning over to give the driver instructions. Settling back against the seat, he continued, "I placed a tracker in his bag."

John's mouth fell open and, not for the first time, he stared at his best friend with a mixture of wonder and impotent anger. "You…you _prick_. You could have stopped me from giving chase and running all this way."

"Nonsense, John. He needed to think we were following him or his employer would become suspicious and find the tracker." Sherlock studied John and crinkled his nose. "Besides you really could stand to lose the stone. Mary will thank me."

Slowly counting to ten, John reminded himself that Sherlock was his friend and that friends don't strangle friends. "Care to tell me who that was? Why is it important that we find his employer?"

Before Sherlock could answer, the taxi stopped in front of a nondescript block of flats. "Getting out here, mate?"

Sherlock consulted his phone again. "No. Take us to 221 Baker."

Perplexed, John asked, "We aren't going in, Sherlock? "

"No need, John. He thinks he's safe in his bolt hole. No use in tipping our hand. Let us hope that he carries his rucksack the next time he meets up with his employer. As to why we are interested in him…" Sherlock reached into his inner coat pocket, pulled out a sheet of paper and handed it to John.

John read the message.

_**Sherlock-**_

_**Miss me? I know. I know. Poor taste to return from the dead. You'd know something about that, wouldn't you? I'm hurt, Sherlock, truly hurt that you would cheat like that in our game. I even brought flowers to your grave and it was all a lie.**_

_**My, my, my, you were such a busy little bee trying to dismantle my organization. Come on, tell the truth, you thought you'd succeeded, didn't you? You don't have a clue, Sherlock. Never did.**_

_**Don't fret. I'll let you in on the game soon enough. It's time for my fun to start again.**_

_**M**_

"Mass produced paper and same green ink used for the tattoos. No fingerprints. I caught the delivery boy trying to slide it under the door. I slipped the tracker in his rucksack during our brief tussle and pretended to give chase."

"Hang on a minute, Sherlock. You just happened to have a tracker bug in your pocket when he arrived?' John could not keep the incredulity from his voice.

Leveling a patronizing look at his fellow passenger, Sherlock explained, "Of course, John, it was obvious that Moriarty would not long be content with roundabout means of communication. It was only a matter of time before he initiated something more personal. I've been carrying it the past few days."

John sarcastically agreed, "Yeah, right, Sherlock. Don't know why I didn't think of that."

"Well you should have, John. Did you learn nothing while living with me? Marriage is dulling your wits while adding to your waistline."

Deliberately choosing to ignore Sherlock's jibe, John asked, "So, what do we do now?"

"Now we wait for Moriarty to make his next move. He's made a mistake again. He doesn't realize that we now know Richard Brook was a mere masque. That means Moriarty thinks we're still searching for Brook. The game is on and we've the advantage."

"Sherlock, this is an awfully serious game, you know. Moriarty is playing with stakes of life and death and Molly is in his cross-hairs," John gently reminded his friend.

Sherlock looked out the side window with narrowed and unseeing eyes. He remained perfectly still, almost as if frozen into place, but John could feel the energy pouring off of him. Several minutes later, he softly replied, "I am well aware of that, John. Sentiment will serve no purpose and only confuse the issue. I will treat this like any other case and suggest you do the same."

John swallowed. In all the time he'd spent with Sherlock they'd found themselves in some pretty harrowing situations, yet he'd never heard what he'd just heard in Sherlock's voice. Sherlock was afraid.

* * *

Molly continued her recounting of the evening's activities, "A chair. He bought me a brand new chair. I never would have predicted that."

"A chair?"

Molly laughed. "I know it sounds silly, Nitsa, but for Sherlock it was nothing short of miraculous that he was so thoughtful. Oh, that sounds wrong. I've made him sound horrible again, haven't I? He's not, you know. He can be ever so lovely at times. You'd have to know him to understand what I mean."

The woman sitting opposite her smiled and in calm, even tone answered, "Molly, I'm not here to judge you or Sherlock. So, tell me what was so thoughtful about the chair."

Biting her lower lip, Molly tried to come up with the right words to explain exactly what the chair meant to her. "It was like him saying that I belonged there…as a permanent part of his life. Me. Molly. That I am more than a poor replacement for John."

"That sounds like good news, Molly. Why the need for a session today?"

Molly could feel the blush creep up her neck and into her face. All day long yesterday, she had been bursting with the news-wanting to tell someone. But telling Mary seemed like a betrayal somehow since Mary was certain to tell John and Sherlock saw John every day. Everyone at St. Bart's and The Met were also off limits. Molly had never realized before how narrow her social circle was. This morning she'd called, hoping someone had canceled their appointment so she could see Nitsa. No one had, but evidently Nitsa heard the note of desperation in her voice and had stayed an hour late to meet with Molly. "You know how Sherlock and I agreed to a marriage of convenience?"

"Yes."

"Well, Saturday night he kissed me. I mean properly kissed me. And when we talked about it yesterday, it sounded like he wants to have sex. No, _wants_ is the wrong word. I guess you could say he's okay with the idea. It's so hard to tell with Sherlock. I don't know what to do. Yes, a part of me, a large part, wants to leap at the chance. It's what I've wanted for so long. I know I said I was okay with a purely platonic relationship and I was. I mean I thought I was. I truly did and then..." Molly's rush of words halted as she noticed the expression on Nitsa's face. The therapist appeared almost angry. "What's wrong, Nitsa?"

The blonde woman took a deep breath and then blew it out. Her face relaxed into its normal neutral expression. "I apologize, Molly. That was completely unprofessional of me. However, I'm concerned for you. You know most of my practice is with victims of domestic violence and I tend to see patterns of control wherever I look. Are you certain this isn't an attempt to manipulate you?'

The only sound in the room for the next few minutes was the ticking of the carriage clock on the mantelpiece as Molly considered the question. Breaking the silence, she admitted, "I can see why you might think that. I know I've talked about how Sherlock used to do that to me when he wanted something in the lab. But ever since coming back, he hasn't done that even once. "

Smiling now, the therapist conceded, "Then I must be wrong. Trust your feelings, Molly. Why are you conflicted about this?"

Molly could feel the heat in her face. As much as she needed to discuss this with a neutral party, it was embarrassing to talk about this with a woman old enough to be her mother. At least Molly assumed Nitsa was that old. It was hard to tell with the shapeless clothes, heavy make-up and thick glasses that the other woman wore. Nitsa was not exactly a fashion plate but that one was of the things Molly most liked about her-fashion had never been a priority for Molly either. Taking the plunge, Molly admitted, "Nitsa, he's absolute rubbish at kissing. What if he's rubbish at all of it?"

The therapist was momentarily nonplussed at Molly's blurted confession. Chuckling a bit, she advised, "Molly, take things slowly. A man who is almost forty and still a virgin is unlikely to be Casanova on his first outing."

"Sherlock isn't a virgin. You must have seen the papers last year. The headlines were hard to avoid. Janine went on and on about all the sex they had."

"Yes, I read the stories. Molly, you need to work on your tendency to be a touch too trusting of others. People lie all of the time and those stories were whoppers. Sherlock would have to be super human to engage in what she described. Trust me, if that's the only supposed sexual relationship he's had, he's not had any at all. As for his technique, you can teach him. Train him the way you like things-sort of like a puppy," she advised and conspiratorially winked at the younger woman.

Molly giggled for a moment at the mention of a puppy. It reminded her of Sherlock's awful kiss. Then a new thought occurred to Molly. One which threw her for a bit of a loop. If Sherlock truly was a virgin, his advances were all that more surprising. Then, remembering the way Sherlock had identified the naked body in the morgue a few years ago, Molly shook her head. "No, I'm pretty certain he had at least one partner in the past. One time he identified a woman's corpse by her naked body. She was awfully beautiful and how else would he know what she looked like naked?"

Nitsa shrugged her shoulders, "I don't know, Molly. But does his past really matter to you? What you need to decide is if you think he is being genuine and if you want to take your relationship to the next level."

It didn't take Molly long to reach her decision. "Yes. More than anything else, I want a complete relationship with Sherlock."

"In that case, the future is decided," Nitsa concluded and broadly smiled.


	11. A Belated Birthday Present

A/N I have changed the rating to M for a reason. Please be mindful this story has taken a more mature turn than I had originally intended.

* * *

Exiting the lovely Georgian townhouse and beginning the walk home, Molly remained deep in thought. It was one thing to make up her mind to take a risk entering into a sexual relationship with Sherlock; it was another thing to actually do it. As for training Sherlock, she hadn't a clue of how to go about accomplishing that particular task. Obviously she was the more experienced of the two but she certainly was not a femme fatale or sex kitten. Her personal romantic history was limited. More importantly, Sherlock really did not take kindly to others instructing him on anything.

Molly grinned as she recalled the time when she had taught Sherlock how to use the new electronic records system at the morgue. He had made such a fuss whinging on and on about how whoever had designed the system must suffer from a subpar intellect. It didn't matter how many times Molly reminded Sherlock that everyone else found the system user friendly- Sherlock had insisted his inability to immediately master it was the result of a design flaw and did not in any way stem from his refusal to read the bloody user manual. The coup de grace occurred when Anderson walked into the lab, logged in and within a mere few minutes easily navigated the system. Sherlock cited it as proof of the inferiority of the system and thereafter refused to sign in again, instead choosing to rely on hard copy files.

A cheerful voice intruded on her thoughts. "Hey, Molly, do you mind if we stop at a Griselda's on the way back? My missus wants some of their salami and it'll save me having to backtrack on the way home."

Molly emitted a startled laugh. "Goodness, Sam, I'd forgotten you were even there. I can't believe I've so quickly grown used to having a shadow."

"Aw think nothin of it, Molly. You were deep in thought so I let you be. Though you might want to think about being more aware of your surroundings for a bit, if you know what I mean? Detective Inspector Lestrade is not one to worry needlessly and if thinks you're in danger, you're in danger."

The earnest young officer made Molly smile. In the few days he'd been assigned to protect her, they'd become fast friends chatting about everything under the sun as he escorted her to and fro. "Sure, we'll stop. I can pick up supplies for dinner. Knowing Sherlock he hasn't eaten anything today."

It was over two hours later by the time they made it back to Baker Street. Molly was relaxed and happy. Shopping at Griselda's was always a treat and Sam was an entertaining companion. They'd strolled up and down the grocer's aisles, the two of them nattering on about current movies and their favorite shows on the telly. As much as Molly loved Sherlock, he was not one for idle chit-chat and she enjoyed the opportunity to talk about silly, meaningless things. It took her mind off of the bigger problems of Moriarty and the potential of sex with Sherlock.

Arriving at safely 221B, Sam helped her schlep the overfilled bags up the stairs. They were laughing about a recent interview they'd both seen on Graham Norton when they entered the flat. The tension in the room immediately quelled their merriment. Sherlock was sprawled in his chair, deep in thought. John was pacing about aimlessly with his hands jammed into his pockets.

"John, what's wrong?" Molly anxiously inquired as she and Sam set the groceries down in the kitchen.

"Someone… hell, it was obviously Moriarty, broke into the flat today and left a message for Sherlock," John explained and gestured to the three letters spray painted on the wall above the bison skull.

Immediately alert, Sam pulled out his mobile. "Have you reported it yet? I'll ring it in."

Without deigning to rise from his chair, Sherlock drawled, "That will not be necessary, Stan. John and I have matters under control. We hardly need Anderson and others from Met tromping all over the place and disturbing my peace. Go home to your wife. The wine you bought should buy you her forgiveness for your argument last night. It's doubtful you'll need to spend the night on the couch again."

Sam had seen Sherlock work at enough crime scenes to be unfazed by the astute and completely correct observations. Muttering a good night to Molly and John, he left for home.

Unpacking the groceries, Molly scolded, "That was rude, Sherlock. Sam has been very kind and attentive."

John began to assist Molly. "Don't mind him, Molly. He's angry because Moriarty tricked him out of the flat with a decoy message. Wow, you got the Spanish olives? I love those. Mary never lets me buy them. Says there is too much salt."

"Why don't you stay to dinner, John? You can ring Mary and have her come over. I tend to get carried away at Griselda's and I've bought more than enough."

"That sounds fantastic. Lestrade is on his way over too. We can go over the new developments from today. I'll just get the plates out, shall I?"

From the adjoining room, Sherlock shouted, "Will you two take your picnic planning session elsewhere? I am trying to think in here." He drummed his fingers on the arm of the chair and his eyes darted about the room. "There is something missing. I can feel it but I don't know what it is," he muttered to himself. Raising his voice again, he ordered, "Molly, go check your room. John and I were up there and couldn't find anything amiss but you might notice something."

Flushing at the idea of John and Sherlock going through her personal effects, Molly went upstairs. She searched through her wardrobe and bureau and found nothing missing or added. The nightstand still held her alarm clock, the book she'd been reading last night and her readers. A scan of the bookshelves revealed that all of her photos and small mementos were untouched. Then she noticed something a bit odd and knelt down to confirm her suspicions.

Heading back downstairs, she entered the living room to find Sherlock exactly where she'd left him and Lestrade intently studying the graffiti. "Sherlock, I know it seems ridiculous but I'm missing some of my books."

Greg turned with a curious expression on his face. Jumping up from the chair, Sherlock answered before Lestrade could ask his question, "That is irrelevant, Molly. Nothing to do with the situation. You must have mislaid them."

Molly was about to object that she could hardly have mislaid the books in a four by four meter room when Mary and John entered. The resulting distraction of greetings and explanations about the break in rendered the protest unvoiced.

After nearly half an hour had passed and over Sherlock's objections, the small group decided to eat dinner. "I'll just pop down and invite Mrs. Hudson up. It'd be rude not to have her when she can hear all of us up here and we need to tell her about the break in," Molly stated in a voice that brooked no objections.

A few minutes later, Molly's frantic screams of "_No! Oh my god, no! Why?_" filled the air. Without hesitation, four pairs of feet thundered towards Mrs. Hudson's rooms. Sherlock reached their destination first and found Molly standing by the kitchen table holding up her now blood stained hands. Her shoulders shook and she sobbed incoherently. As he gathered her in his arms to turn her away from the gory sight, the calculating part of his brain registered that it was not so easy to remain detached when the blood and guts macabrely on display belonged to a being you actually cared about. Before he had a chance to further examine that thought, he felt Molly begin to crumble as shock set in and her knees gave out. Scooping her up into his arms, he barked out, "Lestrade, get your techs out here but don't touch anything until I get back." As he started to leave, a slight whimpering from across the room filtered into his consciousness. He turned back and blanched at the sight of Mrs. Hudson softly crying into her apron.

_For goodness sake, calm down, Sherlock. You didn't even see her there, did you? You'll do no one any good if you go to pieces. Think, Sherlock, think._

This one of the few times Sherlock was grateful for his inner Mycroft. Breathing deeply, he forced oxygen to his brain. In a much calmer voice, he ordered, "John, see to Mrs. Hudson please. Mary, tea with lots of honey for all of us would be helpful." His eyes strayed back to table. Amidst the remnants of cheerful wrapping and bright yellow ribbon was a large gift box with its lid open and the contents on view. Inside, the once full of life little tabby lay there with his entrails hanging out and the letters I. O. U. burned into his fur.


	12. Very Much Good

Later, when she was no longer freshly traumatized by the death of her cat, Molly would recall how Sherlock had cradled her in his arms as he took the steps two at time with barely a hitch in his breath. However, at the moment, nothing beyond the blindingly white-hot searing pain of loss penetrated her mind. Somehow she found herself propped up at the wash basin with Sherlock gently bathing her arms and hands. Mutely she watched as the pink water swirled down the drain. A sob escaped her as it dawned that this was literally part of Toby disappearing into the pipes.

"Hush, Molly, we're almost done. You're doing so well. I just need to dry you off," Sherlock softly whispered. Demonstrating a patience he had not known he possessed, he carefully blotted her with the towel. "Come on, Molly, you need to lie down before you collapse." Sherlock ushered her to his room and began tucking her into bed.

As he drew the covers over her, Molly came out of her fog long enough to take in her surroundings. "Sherlock, why am I in your room? I should be upstairs."

Relieved by this small return to normalcy, Sherlock smiled and quipped, "Well, Molly, you are far too heavy for me to carry all that way. You must have put on at least five pounds since moving in here." He awaited her fiery retort to such an outrageous statement. None came. Instead, her lips began to quiver and more tears filled her eyes. In his rush to reassure her, his words practically tripped over each other. "Molly, I'm only joking. You weigh nothing at all and are perfectly proportioned. Please don't let it upset you further, Molly. I'm a silly ass trying to tease you now." He was rewarded with a weak smile from her.

"Sherlock, you're rubbish at humor, you know. But you are being awfully sweet." She scooted up so her back was against the headboard. Taking a deep breath, she continued in a wobbly voice, "I'll be fine, Sherlock. Eventually. It's only that…" Molly had to stop for a moment as tears once again began to slide down her face. In a forlorn whisper she confessed, "I've lost my best friend."

Her words felt like a kick to his abdomen and his stomach roiled in protest. Telling himself that it was absurd to be jealous of cat, especially a dead one, Sherlock nevertheless found that he was…very much so. Shoving that particularly nasty tidbit of vulnerability to the back of his mind, Sherlock answered her earlier question, "I brought you in here so you can hear us in the other room as you try to fall asleep. I believe most people find that soothing?" He deliberately neglected to add that he would find it reassuring to have her close at hand as well.

"I…uh…thank you, Sherlock. That's very thoughtful. Though I doubt I'll sleep very much."

"I'll have Mary bring you in some tea. It'll help calm you."

Suspicion filled her face and Molly declared, "Don't you dare drug my tea, Sherlock!" When he didn't answer, she demanded, "Promise me, Sherlock. Promise me that you won't drug it."

Sherlock met her eyes. "I promise I won't drug it, Molly. Just try to get some sleep. You've had a nasty shock and need to recover a bit." Leaning over, he placed a feather light kiss on her forehead and turned to leave. Pausing at the door, he softly admitted, "I will miss Toby too, Molly. He was an intelligent little cat." Her choked cry caused him to turn back around. Perplexed that she was once again weeping at what he'd intended to be comforting words and silently damning his ineptness at these kinds of situations, he tentatively asked, "Was that _not good_?"

Through a watery smile, Molly reassured him, "No, that was good, Sherlock, _very_ good. You could not have said anything more perfect. Thank you, Sherlock. Now leave before I end up drowning both of us. Go and find some clues so we can catch that monster Moriarty."

* * *

Mycroft and Sherlock sat comfortably in front of the fireplace softly talking. Hours ago, John and Mary had departed for home. With an infant child to care for there was no option to stay until the wee hours of the morning. John had attended to Mrs. Hudson and seen her safely ensconced in her bed and asleep. Mary realized that no one had any appetite left and so repackaged the impromptu picnic and put all the food away. Only Lestrade had stayed, but even he had given in to exhaustion and headed home a few minutes ago. That was fine with the Holmes brothers. They had much to discuss that was not for anyone else's ears, no matter how close a friend they might be.

Running his fingers along the soft velvet arm of the chair he sat in, Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "Redecorating, Sherlock? Or is this the work of your bride? I must admit she's never struck me as one overly concerned with appearances. Still, I must say it is a vast improvement over that tattered old piece you forced upon John."

Ignoring his brother's comment, Sherlock broached the topic that had been foremost on his mind the past few hours. "Have you tracked her down yet?"

Cocking his head to one side and adopting a blank expression, Mycroft asked, "Whom are you speaking about, Sherlock?"

Sherlock bit back an expletive. It was not that he minded swearing in front of Mycroft; it was that he refused to allow Mycroft to see how very annoying he found him. Given an inch, Mycroft would take the proverbial mile and Sherlock was currently too concerned about the night's events to engage in childish wordplay. In a clipped tone, he patiently, or at least patiently for Sherlock, elaborated, "The Woman. Adler. Have your operatives located her?"

"Irene Adler? Why she was killed by a terrorist cell, Sherlock. Surely you know that," Mycroft deadpanned.

"Mycroft…,"growled Sherlock in a furious tone.

Realizing that as much as he wanted to pay his little brother back for lying to him this was hardly the time to do so, Mycroft acquiesced, "Oh, you mean the very same woman who you rescued in a fit of misguided heroic zealousness? An incident which, by the way, necessitated several weeks of backroom negotiations to eliminate the fatwa declared as a result." He paused for a moment to allow the import of his words to sink in. "That _Woman_? No, we've yet to locate her."

Stung by Mycroft's implicit rebuke, Sherlock taunted, "Your people are losing their touch, brother dear. How difficult can one woman be to locate? "

Reluctantly Mycroft admitted, "It's been more of a challenge than I thought it would be, Sherlock. She's changed her identity at least fifteen times that we've been able to trace. However, heads have rolled for losing track of her to begin with and it's only a matter of time before we finally catch up with her latest incarnation." He took a sip of his drink and considered his next question for a moment before deciding to voice it. Sherlock's feelings towards Adler had never been satisfactorily categorized. Mycroft was still unsure whether it had been a momentary infatuation for the woman or if his little brother did truly care for the sultry dominatrix. Most assuredly Sherlock had chosen blood and country when the stakes had been at their highest. Yet, Sherlock also allowed Adler to cloud his judgment to a degree previously and subsequently unequalled. "Do you really believe their relationship was _personal_ enough for her to provide insight into Moriarty?"

Shrugging elegantly, Sherlock confessed, "I'm not certain." Launching himself out of his chair, he went and picked up the skull from the mantelpiece. Energetic, despite, the long day, he sought to diffuse some of the adrenaline coursing through him by fiddling with the skull as he explained, "She was a close business associate so she may have some leads. At this point, we can't be beggars. More to the point, she's in danger from Moriarty if she knows anything at all. I've put out feelers as well. She is bound to contact one of us soon. I'd prefer it were you."

Mycroft smiled a slightly cynical smile. "Worried about disturbing your marital bliss, Sherlock? How very domesticated of you. Either you are afraid you won't be able to withstand the temptation of Ms. Adler or you are concerned Mrs. Holmes would not care for your communicating with an old flame. Perhaps both? My, my, you are full of surprises lately, brother. So recently married and already considering another woman."

Sherlock's reply was forestalled when a slight noise from the hallway signaled that Molly was up and about. Both men ceased their conversation as they waited to see if she would join them. The sound of running water soon emanated from the bathroom. A few minutes later and Molly's light footsteps and the click of the bedroom door indicated that she had gone back to bed.

"Don't you have a home to go to, Mycroft?" Sherlock held his brother's gaze. Well acquainted with Mycroft's old trick of leveling outrageous accusations to bait people into revealing more than they wished, Sherlock refused to yield. The siblings engaged in a staring contest for several minutes, each too stubborn to give in.

Finally, Mycroft expelled an exasperated sigh. "Sherlock, I am not your enemy. I had rather hoped we'd reached the point where we could discuss things like adults do."

In a falsetto voice, Sherlock taunted, "Oh, you want to share, Mycroft? Just between us girls? Do tell me all about your latest date. Was it everything you dreamed of?"

"Obviously you are incapable of behaving like a civilized being at the moment. It's late and I don't currently have the patience for jejune antics. I'll see myself out. Contact me if you hear anything from that woman," Mycroft calmly observed. Pulling out his phone, he rapidly texted a message and then rose to leave. At the room's threshold he stopped and turned back. "Sherlock, one more thing before I depart. Moriarty's return did create one fortunate result. It derailed your exile and eventual certain demise. For that reason, I cannot help but owe him a debt of gratitude." Without waiting for a response, he descended the stairs.

A speechless Sherlock remained in the now empty room. This new aspect of Mycroft was not only disconcerting but it was starting to appear with an alarming regularity. Navigating his way through the new relationship with Molly was difficult enough without having Mycroft change the well-established rules of their fraternal bond. He had always been able to count on Mycroft being the voice of pure reason with no messy emotions to cloud the prevailing issue. This was no longer the case. Worse yet, Sherlock could not find it within himself to be truly unhappy with this development. Unfortunately, it could not have occurred at a worse possible point in time. Right now, Sherlock needed to focus on finding Moriarty and stopping him for once and for all. Any residual energy, both mental and physical, was needed to continue his research on how best to ensure Molly had no cause to end their marriage- a task that neither Moriarty nor Mycroft could assist with.


End file.
